


Just Before Breathing

by yeaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Collars, Dark, Dom/sub, Dominance, HP: EWE, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Ownership, Puppy Play, Rimming, Romance, Slavery, Slurs, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-24 06:49:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 66,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Azkaban is too full and Neville buys Draco: a mystery in itself. Draco's determined to have a use that keeps him safe, though he doesn't expect the things that unfold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.
> 
> A/N: This isn't properly British.

There is no light today. 

Sometimes, on rare occasions, the sun filters in through the little window at the top of his cell, and sometimes he can hear the waves outside, crashing against the walls. Sometimes the bricks are too warm with the weather and scald his bare feet, burn at his legs and back—but he’s too weak to stand for very long. Mostly, it’s cold. It’s hard, and it’s very, very cold, and every surface is rougher than the last.

Sometimes, when consciousness simply refuses to subside, Draco tries to pretend he’s somewhere else. He closes his eyes to the dark brick cage and tries to picture his mother’s face, carefree and loving. He pictures his father as he was before the war, before everything fell apart, with his golden hair swept up in a breeze and his arms held wide for Draco to run to. Draco covers his ears a lot, because he’s afraid, more than anything, that he’ll hear his father’s screams. He knows their cells are nowhere near each other, but sometimes, when he’s alone in the darkness, late at night, he thinks he can hear familiar voices crying. Sometimes, he slowly comes to realize it’s himself. Other times, he believes it is his father, many stones below, broken and sobbing. These are the worst nights, and Draco keeps his palms hard against his ears.

When the black door appears in the wall, Draco crawls into the position he has to, on his hands and on his knees. If he doesn’t stay like that, with his head bowed, he won’t be fed. He doesn’t know if it’s like that for all the prisoners, but it is for him. He’s still not even sure what he’s done to warrant all the cruelty he’s gotten, but it doesn’t matter. He knows it’ll keep coming, and he learned back in Hogwarts the best thing to do is just lie down and take it.

Draco keeps his eyes fixated on the floor as the door creaks open. It casts a thin shadow of barely-light across him, and then the footsteps come in. Draco flinches on instinct, but tries to hide it out of a small, remaining scrap of pride.

The footsteps are never good. If the guard comes in, rather than chucking a gruel-filled bowl inside, that can only mean that he wants to play. Draco isn’t really surprised by how often he’s ‘played’ with—the other Death Eaters warned him before his trial. A pretty young thing like him would be an easy target, they told him.

They were right.

Draco stays rigidly still as the man walks into the cell, pacing slowly around to Draco’s back. Draco doesn’t know who it is today—all their shoes look the same to him. He has faint, distant memories of wearing nice shoes himself—tailor-made shirts and custom robes. Now his striped robe is faded and torn in most places, and it slips off his shoulder. He’s scrawnier than he’s ever been and impossibly paler. He doesn’t need a mirror to know he looks awful. Why do they still play with him, he wonders? His hair is a wreck and he’s sure his eyes are hollow.

When the man shoots forward to grab at his neck, Draco isn’t expecting it, and he cries out in surprise. A large hand quickly muzzles him, and the other forces a strange contraption around his neck. It’s pulled tight and latched shut; it feels like some sort of collar. He automatically lifts his hands to feel it, but the man grabs his wrists and pulls them behind his back, forcing him down into the floor, cheek pressed to the hard stone. They’re tied, wrist to elbow, so tight that it cuts off his circulation. Then he’s yanked to his feet by his neck and marched out the door.

* * *

Draco isn’t placed down carefully. He’s thrown surreptitiously to the floor, while the Auror behind the desk has his back turned.

The guard is out the door without another word, leaving Draco to do his best to sit up without the use of his arms. He doesn’t get his torso more than a few centimeters off the ground before he’s levitated into a chair, iron and heavy. He’s plopped down in it with as little care as he was first shown, and then leather bindings wrap up around him. Draco has to stop himself from rolling his eyes in defeat—that’s so unnecessary. He isn’t stupid enough to try and escape from Azkaban. Certainly not from a warden’s office with no wand and no arms. He looks up when Dawlish grumbles, “Draco Malfoy.”

Dawlish isn’t really a warden, but Aurors do visit from time to time, and they have similar enough status. Mostly they just check out the prisoners, appraising them like cattle. When the Dark Lord fell, too many Death Eaters were caught, and not enough were Kissed. Azkaban bursts at the seams, and Draco always wonders who will be thrown in his cell next. Greyback, perhaps? Or someone worse, if there are any.

From what Draco hears, in the times groups of men come to him or chatter outside his cell like his hearing is of no consequence, the Ministry saw fit to assuage this problem by granting prisoners to trained Aurors for servants, paid a decreasing sentence instead of a wage. Only Aurors that could handle it, of course, and only Death Eaters consider truly useless—adequately drained of magic and too weak to continue. Draco isn’t sure how long this program has been in effect—he doesn’t know how long he’s been in Azkaban. He doesn’t know how successful the program is or any of the participants. All he knows is that a few Aurors have appraised him, and a few Death Eaters have been thrown back, too bloody and abused and tortured to go on. The horror stories he hears—the legal rapes, and Unforgiveables, and mutilations—send fear into his heart every time he’s examined. One time he even pissed himself, when a particular Auror had a ‘test drive.’ But he hasn’t been approved yet, and he’s been thoroughly dreading the day.

Now Dawlish is examining him with a look that makes Draco want to puke all over himself. He’s already trembling. Dawlish leans forward across the rickety wooden table and clasps his hands over a pile of papers. He’s frowning, which Draco thinks is better for himself than smiling. Dwalish’s voice is low as he explains, “You’ve been approved for the servitude program.”

Draco’s stomach falls. Azkaban is his worst nightmare. But it’s better than being given to Dawlish—better than becoming one man’s dog. At least he’s rarely cursed in here, and the physical beatings and the molestation are days apart. He’s one in a sea of hundreds of prisoners here, but out there he’ll be a private toy. He tries to keep the tears from his eyes, scrunching them defiantly shut as the Auror continues.

“You’ve been purchased and will be transported immediately to your new owner.” Then Draco hears a metal chair scrape back, and he looks up to see Dawlish strolling around the desk towards him. The closer Dwalish gets, the more his too-far-apart eyes and his prominent square-jaw frighten Draco—he looks down when Dawlish stops just a few centimeters away. Draco doesn’t know much about the man, but he does know that, like many Aurors that were forced to work for both Fudge and an Imperiused Thicknesse, Dawlish hasn’t been left with much love for the Death Eaters. “Before being delivered, you’ll be briefed on the proper conduct. Naturally, we expect full compliance, or you’ll end up right back here. Your cell has already been filled, so should you be returned, you’ll be locked in with one of the more... seasoned... Death Eaters. The Ministry does not tolerate disobedience. Do you understand?”

Draco pauses only a few seconds before nodding, and no sooner has he started than he’s punched abruptly in the face—he goes flying sideways, the chair tied to his body, and the entire contraption topples to the floor with him in it. His skulls hits the floor with a sickening cracking sound, and he hisses in pain. Dawlish stands over him and repeats, “I suggest you absorb your conditioning well, Malfoy.” And then he kicks Draco hard in the stomach, eliciting another shriek before Draco’s hauled out of the magically-retreating binding by his hair, pulled up, and dragged out of the room.

* * *

The portkey takes Draco to a mildly-familiar, middle-class wizarding street. It’s dark outside and the stars are just starting to show. Dawlish drags him across the way by his collar. Draco’s forced to follow with his arms still bound, now dressed only in tight leather pants. Walking is painful; his limbs are stiff from disuse. His thin chest is exposed to the open night air, and he’s very grateful that the street is empty. He’s been ‘conditioned,’ which doesn’t really mean much, as he knew all the information anyway. He’s a pureblood—he knows how slaves were treated in the past, and the wizarding world evolves slowly.

They walk to a particularly old-looking home, and Dawlish tries the knocker. Draco tries not to cower too pitifully behind; he’s in for enough sniveling and groveling without doing it outside.

But when the door swings open, Draco forgets all the pretense.

Because he’s looking right into the hazel eyes of Neville Longbottom and trying desperately to stay upright because of it.


	2. Chapter 2

Draco isn’t privy to whatever discussion Neville Longbottom and Dawlish are having, which isn’t a surprise. He doesn’t need to be there to know it’s about him. Dawlish is probably giving Longbottom the run-down: explaining his rights (which are pretty much everything) and Draco’s (which are pretty much nothing.) There’s probably some sort of return policy and a list of check-in requirements. Draco wonders vacantly how Longbottom’s reacting; if he’s being a Gryffindor about this or a Slytherin.

A Gryffindor, Draco would think, wouldn’t buy a slave in the first place. But then, most of the Aurors are probably Gryffindors, so they obviously are. Draco doesn’t know anyone in Slytherin who wanted to be an Auror. Although ‘slaves’ isn’t really how the Ministry officially puts it—servants paid in time, or prisoners guarded by private guards. Perhaps Longbottom’s doing his civic duty, because Azkaban’s overrun, and someone has to do something about it. Perhaps the Ministry caught a much more prevalent Death Eater and needed a cell to put him in, and Draco was simply at the bottom of the list and got spit out on the first Ministry official available. Surely they know that he isn’t much of a threat. Despite what Draco liked to tell himself back in school, he recognizes now, having witnessed his fair share of atrocities, that he was all in all a pretty shitty Death Eater.

Then Draco wonders if he should call Longbottom Longbottom or Neville. Or maybe master, or sir, or something stupid like that. Whatever he’s going to have to say out loud, he wants to say in his head; it’ll make things easier.

Draco shivers and tries to shift where he’s sitting, which is somewhat difficult, given how much he’s chained up. He’s on the floor next to a bed—what he assumes is Longbottom’s bed—kneeling with his hands cuffed behind his back. His legs are tied together from his ankles to his knees, he’s muzzled, and the collar around his neck is attached to a chain-link leash tied around the end bedpost. He’s still only wearing the leather trousers, far too tight to be comfortable. Draco wonders if all the Death Eaters are dressed like that upon delivery, or if it’s Longbottom’s special request. Was Longbottom this kinky in school? ...It’s probably standard. Aurors wouldn’t want their nice, clean homes covered in the soot of an Azkaban-stained robe.

Longbottom’s home, from what Draco managed to glimpse, is neither particularly clean nor particularly messy. It’s average—a simple bachelor’s home. At least, he assumes Longbottom’s a bachelor. Everything looks in the singular. The room he’s in now is probably the main bedroom. It’s far smaller than Draco’s was at his manor, but then, he knows that most houses aren’t like his. The carpet is beige and generic, the walls are a dull sort of brown-gray, and most of the furniture is made out of wood. There’re two sets of drawers, a shelf with various books and knickknacks on it, and a small nightstand by the bed. On the nightstand is a lamp, and a black box full of all the things Draco came with. (Not his possessions, of course, but bindings and other things that Draco can only guess at.) There’s a closed closet door on one wall, the main door on the next, and a window and the bed across from that. The bed is just a regular bed—not a four-poster or a canopy bed like Draco had both at home and Hogwarts, but a simple, maybe queen-sized mattress on a wooden frame with dark crimson sheets. The lights are on, and next to the Azkaban cell Draco’s been in for the past however-long, it feels impossibly bright and huge. 

When Draco tries again to shift his weight, he ends up knocking himself over, thankfully into the bed. If it were to the floor, he probably wouldn’t be able to get back up. He steadies himself against the side of the mattress and slowly worms his legs out from under himself. He feels like a mermaid in some horrible kinky bondage dream. Is Longbottom going to keep him chained up like this often? He hopes not. But he knows the collar will stay.

The collars are a special design, just for this program. They’re impossible for the wearer to take off without magic, and they also restrict the user from being able to use magic. So basically, Draco has absolutely no way of removing it and no way of using a wand even were he to obtain one. Draco’s also heard stories that the collars can Crucio the wearer when they misbehave, or choke them if they try to harm their master. But Draco isn’t stupid enough to do either of those things. He spent years obeying his father, and a far, far worse time cowering below the Dark Lord. He’s not going to throw a big fit now when he’s so obviously restricted, and he resolves, despite his unease, to do whatever he can to obey Longbottom. Which is one thought he never thought he’d ever, ever have.

What Longbottom will order him to do is a complete mystery to Draco. He doesn’t know at all how the war changed Longbottom—although he does know that the war changed pretty much everyone, pretty drastically. And even with that aside, Draco didn’t know much about Longbottom back in school. He was a pathetic mess until the Dark Lord’s rise and then became a more awkward-but-determined mess, and then when Dumbledore fell (which still makes Draco cringe to think about) Longbottom became a confident, defiant wizard. Draco was never keeping track, but he knows that Longbottom suffered more than a couple detentions with the dreaded Carrows, and at one point went on some sort of run. That makes Draco’s chest constrict. That sort of explains things. Longbottom’s probably jaded now, probably tougher, probably angry. The war left so many angry. And Draco’s the epitome of everything bad that Longbottom probably went through, never mind that Draco’s never been able to Crucio anyone properly in his life. Longbottom probably remembers all the years that Draco needlessly put him through hell, for no particular reason other than he could.

Oh, fuck. Draco breathes deeply through his nose (since his mouth is muzzled) and tries not to think about that anymore. That’s what this is. It isn’t some social duty to keep the bigger threats behind bars—it’s a ploy at vengeance. Draco shudders in his bonds. The room feels colder.

* * *

When the door bursts open, Draco’s head shoots up—he was almost asleep. Which would be a difficult feat in all his bonds, if he weren’t used to sleeping in a small, hard cell, and the bed wasn’t the softest thing he’s felt in months. Then he remembers his place and looks back down again, just in case.

Dawlish isn’t there, and that just leaves Longbottom, looking as unreadable as he did at the door. Draco tries to keep the shame off his face as he stares adamantly at the carpet, trying to school his features into neutrality like his father taught him. (Although he was never particularly good at it.)

“Dawlish left,” Longbottom says into the silence, and his voice is slightly deeper than Draco remembers. It’s slightly stronger, though a little cold, if not as cold as Draco expected. “He gave me quite an earful before I could get rid of him, though.” He sounds vaguely disapproving, and Draco wonders frightfully if Dawlish is too hard or too soft for Longbottom’s tastes.

Then Longbottom bends down and starts by taking of the muzzle, which Draco sincerely wishes he wouldn’t. Because Draco doesn’t know what to say or how to act. Should he nod at everything? He stays still, quiet, and hopeful, as Longbottom reaches over to his legs. A tap of Longbottom’s wand and the black ropes shrivel backwards, disappearing into the air. Draco keeps his legs where they are. Then his arms are untied in a similar fashion, and Draco locks his fingers together and keeps his arms where they are. Lastly, the chain is unhooked from his collar, and Draco stays with his cheek pressed into the mattress, looking anywhere but up.

Longbottom stands up and walks over to the box on the nightstand, dropping everything in. It doesn’t seem like it should be able to hold everything, but it’s probably enchanted. Then Longbottom walks back, drops the box on the floor beside Draco, and kicks it unceremoniously under the bed. Draco again has to wonder if it’s because Longbottom has no use for bindings and torture devices, or if he simply already has his own.

Draco shivers and otherwise tries not to move.

After a minute of torturous nothing, Longbottom says, “Malfoy.” Draco looks up instantly. Longbottom has his hands in his pockets. He’s wearing muggle trousers and a grey muggle sweater with stripes across the torso. There’s a white dress shirt underneath, the collar of which is slightly peeking over, and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. He’s more handsome than Draco remembers—objectively speaking, not that Draco’s checking out Gryffindors—but then, he never had the time or energy to notice those things in their last Hogwarts years. Longbottom’s taller than Draco remembers—probably as tall as Draco, or taller. Were Draco standing, that is. He’s not sure if he’ll be able to stand. Will he be crawling everywhere? After another minute, Longbottom releases an uncomfortable sigh and turns to walk over to the closet. He comes back with a plain white t-shirt and tosses it down. “Can you put that on?” Then he rubs at his eyes as he sits down on the bed.

Draco instantly puts the shirt on and vehemently tries not to scowl at being dressed like a muggle. The leather trousers were bad enough. It’s better than Azkaban, he tells himself. But former classmates didn’t witness that. It’s better than Azkaban. (And it could be so much worse.)

Longbottom pats the bed next to himself and says, “Sit.”

This time Draco blinks first. On the bed. He feels like a house elf given a hat. And then he immediately loathes himself for thinking that. He’s a pureblood, for fuck’s sake. Not a house elf. (Is Longbottom a pureblood? He thinks so but isn’t completely sure. Well, that’s something.)

Climbing gingerly onto the soft blankets, Draco doesn’t quite manage to stifle the tiny moan in time. He hasn’t been on something soft in ages. It isn’t really that cold anymore, now that his chest’s covered, although he’d like socks. He doesn’t know what to do with his arms, so he places them submissively in his lap and wills himself to look at Longbottom. He still doesn’t say anything. But he hopes he doesn’t look like the terrified wreck he is.

Longbottom doesn’t look particularly fond of Draco, as expected. He seems to be studying Draco, and Draco’s shoulders stiffen at that. He wants the appraisal to be good, whatever it’s for. Longbottom’s probably better than Azkaban. Probably by a long shot. But Draco doesn’t know that for sure yet. Should he apologize, maybe? For school, and everything that happened. Of course not; he’s a Malfoy. He’s still not going to apologize. But then, he’s also a Slytherin, and self-preservation is key. Draco’s a muddled ball of confusion as Longbottom opens his mouth again and bluntly says, “There are some house rules.”

Draco nods. Naturally.

“I work most days, so you’ll be by yourself. You can use the television if you want—it’s muggle, but you’ll get really bored if you don’t. Obviously, I can’t let you leave. There are wards around the property. I’ll also be taking my wand with me, but it doesn’t matter. You know you can’t use magic?” There’s a pause in which Draco nods and tries not to look as incredibly bitter as he feels. “Okay, good. Dawlish just put you in here without asking, but there’s a spare room across the hall you can stay in. You can help yourself to the fridge, but don’t bother trying to poison or stab me—the collar will stop you. And frankly, it’d be a pretty stupid move on your part, anyway; you’d just go back to Azkaban, and your parole hearing would come up in fifty years instead of ten.” Draco tries to keep the surprise off his face. Ten years? Is that really how much he has left? He hadn’t thought about it much, because Azkaban was just endless, but now he’s somewhat out in the real world, where time passes. Longbottom continues unemotionally, “Do your own dishes; I’m sure you can figure out how to do it the muggle way. Put your laundry in the hamper in the bathroom and I’ll do it with mine... probably whenever I feel like it. I’ll get you some clothes later, but this was sort of a last minute arrangement, so you’ll just be in my stuff for a while.” Another pause, and Longbottom adds in a grumble, “I don’t care what you’re used to; I’m not spending a fortune on designer robes.”

Draco’s stomach churns violently as he struggles to digest all of this. None of it is Earth-shattering information, but it is mind-blowing in the sense that the rules almost sound like they’re for a roommate. Even if the tone they’re delivered in sounds callous and grim. And Draco isn’t a roommate. He’s a ‘prisoner,’ which he knows darn well is fancy talk for ‘slave.’ He wants to ask sarcastically what the beating schedule is like but doesn’t dare open his mouth.

Longbottom glances at the far wall and mumbles to himself, “Is that everything? ...Shit, I shoulda wrote this all down...” He scratches his head, then concludes, “Oh, and don’t answer my phone. If Hermione finds out about this, she’ll kill me, and Ron’s got a big mouth, and I don’t need you starting shit with Harry. I don’t care if you’re mine now, I’m not going to take your side, and I don’t want to hear you bitching about it. ...I’d say you can use the phone, but I doubt you know anyone with a phone, anyway.” Draco only has a very vague, unsure idea of what a phone is. Longbottom clears that up by saying, “I have an owl, but I mostly keep her at the Ministry since everything I get seems to be work-related.” Another pause. “...Okay, I think that’s it... I’ll tell you later if I remember anything.”

And then he climbs briskly off the bed, making Draco flinch. He’s learned from recent experience that sudden movements usually aren’t good.

Longbottom looks back at him like he’s crazy. Draco sits on the bed, feeling crazy. Or drunk, or asleep. This can’t be real. He’s acting foolishly, wincing at everything. When he woke up this morning, this is not how he expected his night to end.

“Did they cut out your voice box in Azkaban or something?” Longbottom says it in sarcasm, but Draco still flinches. He’s heard the warden talk about those sort of things. (And since when did Longbottom get sarcastic, anyway? Probably when the Carrows came around. It’s still strange.)

But that’s clearly a sign that he’s supposed to talk here, so despite his desire not to, Draco mumbles, “No... er, sir.” Is that right?

Longbottom raises an eyebrow and says, “Don’t do that, that’s weird.” Talk? When Draco’s own eyebrows knit together, Longbottom rolls his eyes and grumbles, “Just call me Neville, okay? We’re the same age.”

Except one of them is the owner and one of them is the owned, but Draco just nods and says, “Neville.” Then he makes a mental note to correct all his thoughts to ‘Neville,’ because really, that’s a much better name than Longbottom, anyway, which is a somewhat unfortunate surname to have at all. ...Although ‘Neville’ is sort of strange on his tongue...

While he’s debating this Longb- Neville just looks at him, before saying questioningly, “...Malfoy?”

“What?” Was that snappish? That sounded snappish. Fuck. He’s not good at talking to Gryffindors. Everything comes out an irritated quip, even after all this time, even when it’s not supposed to.

Neville looks at him like he’s stupid, which makes Draco fight a scowl. Neville says, “C’mon.”

Neville turns to walk out of the room, and Draco freezes.

He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to walk or crawl. Sometimes—more often than not—the Aurors in Azkaban made him crawl. Should he crawl? Better safe than sorry. He can’t help but look bitter as he does it, slipping off the bed onto his hands and knees. He only gets about a meter forward before Neville seems to notice and turns to say, “Wh... Malfoy, you don’t have to do that.”

So Draco climbs to his feet, blushing hotly. Which he hopes Neville won’t notice, but of course he’ll notice—Draco’s too pale to not turn completely pink whenever he’s embarrassed. Oh Merlin. This is like a nightmare he would’ve had back in Hogwarts. It’s better than Azkaban, of course—he isn’t really complaining. It’s just that it’s horribly humiliating not knowing what to do and instinctively self-inflicting the most degrading options. Maybe Neville’s normal, and Azkaban’s fucked Draco up.

Of course Azkaban’s fucked him up. He knows that. When his father came back from prison the first time, the once proud man became a shrinking, depressed shadow, and it pains Draco to know he isn’t any better.

But he shouldn’t think of his father. That hurts more than any of this ever could, and he tries to shake it out, glancing sideways down the upper hall. Neville’s home consists of two floors, from what he’s seen, with only the basic rooms. No ballroom or library like Malfoy Manor, and not even a dining room, really. Well, that Draco saw, anyway. On the way up, he caught a glimpse of a kitchen and a living room, and up here, they’ve left Neville’s room, they pass a bathroom, and then hit another bedroom. When Neville opens the door, it’s smaller than the other one, but still twice the size of Draco’s cell. He follows Neville inside, standing awkwardly while Neville turns around to gesture at various things.

“I put some of my clothes in the closet already.” He stops to eye Draco before adding, “You’re probably too thin for most of them, but I put some belts in there. You won’t need shoes, obviously. Oh—I forgot to say this earlier—I put a toothbrush in the bathroom for you; it’s green. Don’t touch the red one; that’s mine. You can use the rest of my toiletries. Uh... anyway, that’s sort of all that’s in here. Don’t bother making the bed—I don’t care. Just don’t leave food on the floor and we’re good.” Then his neutral-to-hard look takes on a note of pity, which makes Draco silently furious. “I suppose you don’t have any possessions anymore to put anywhere.”

Draco holds back a sarcastic remark about how generous Azkaban was with gifts. 

The next few moments are filled with an awkward sort of nothing, in which Neville studies Draco with mild displeasure and Draco studies Neville with overwhelming trepidation. The boy—man, now, Draco supposes—isn’t nearly the monster Draco was expecting. Which isn’t to say that he’s overwhelmingly kind; there’s a definite coldness and distance to Neville, but compared to what Draco was expecting, it’s incredibly tame. He’s definitely being treated like a roommate, if an unwanted one, that isn’t allowed to leave or send and receive owls. It’s still about a million times better than what it could be.

It’s too good to be true, in fact. Even if Neville isn’t technically extending him anything beyond basics, and isn’t smiling at him, or saying anything particularly nice. It’s far more wonderful than anything he ever expected, and he finds himself tense with the worry of what the inevitable catch is.

“Anyway, I’ve got some plants to attend to. ...Er, good night.” Neville takes a step closer, probably just to walk around him and leave, but Draco’s irrational mind makes him flinch, anyway. Neville pauses immediately, and Draco flushes again and feels increasingly stupid. Then Neville actually has the gall to look irritated.

After a short pause he says, “Would you stop looking at me like I’m going to punch you in the face? I’m not.”

Draco hesitates a moment. Disbelieving, he sniffs and says, “I’m just wary.”

Neville snorts. “Why? Have a guilty conscience?” Draco stiffens immediately. “Want to apologize for anything?”

Draco goes rigid as a rock and says nothing. His lips move into a thin frown, teeth closed tightly. He doesn’t want to apologize. He really, really doesn’t want to apologize, and not just because he’s petty and bitchy and he meant every damn thing he ever said, but because it’s still _Longbottom_ , even if everything else is different, and Draco just can’t bring himself to apologize to a Gryffindor. He’s still a Slytherin. It’s all he has left. Maybe he can get out of this intact. If Neville really isn’t going to punch him in the face (or Crucio him, hopefully) then he’s certainly going to try and get away with whatever he can. Starting with trying to scrap together some semblance of himself, however difficult he’s sure that’ll be. 

Neville rolls his eyes and walks right past Draco, ignoring the cringe it still causes. He closes the door behind himself, leaving Draco alone in the small, empty bedroom.

* * *

Draco, at first, was absolutely elated to have a bed. He hasn’t slept in a bed in a very, very long time, and he spent a good half an hour just rolling around and enjoying being comfortable. He had to suppress his giddy giggles and dearly hopes that Neville didn’t hear any next door. Draco doesn’t know how thick the walls are. But he can’t hear Neville, and he doesn’t dare leave his room to check.

Draco kept his leather trousers and shirt on, simply for the novelty of being covered. It makes him feel sort of safe, and he’s now buried under the many layers of sheets and blankets with the lights off, wrapped up like a small child in a giant cocoon. He feels warm and almost content, which is frankly something he never thought he’d feel again.

But once the newness bled away, the worry crept back. Even though he’s physically alright, he’s nervous all over again. Being in a separate room, all of a sudden, doesn’t seem such a great thing.

Because if Draco has his own room, then he wasn’t bought to be humiliated. Or at least, that couldn’t be the sole purpose—too many good opportunities for that have passed. And if he’s in a separate room than Neville, he probably isn’t for sex—the only other thing he can really think of.

And that means he either has no use. It’s an absolutely terrifying thought. Either this is about to turn extremely bad at some point in the near future (which, admittedly, is seeming increasingly unlikely) or Neville will inevitably grow bored of him and send him back to Azkaban.

If Draco can sleep in a bed every night, and eat actual food when he’s hungry, and actually bathe properly (rather than just getting the occasional cleaning charm thrown on him whenever an Aurors feel like it, like right before he was delivered today) then there’s no way in hell he’s going back to Azkaban. This life, from what he can tell, might be nothing compared to what he grew up with. But it’s heaven next to prison, and he doesn’t want to go back.

Which means he’ll have to make up a use for himself. Naturally, he doesn’t want to be a punching bag. Which means he’ll have to try a few domestic duties, although it doesn’t seem like Neville cares much about those. Alright then. He’ll just have to seduce Longbottom. That’s all there is for it.

Draco winces to himself and rolls over into the pillow. He buries his face in it and lets out a frustrated sigh. He’s going to have to seduce Neville Longbottom. And he doesn’t know which part of that is the bigger obstacle. Him being wrecked and drained and ugly now, and someone Neville couldn’t possible feel anything for other than hatred. Or Neville being Neville, a blood traitor Draco spent the better half of his school years picking on and the rest of the time ignoring.

He tells himself his new motto: it’s better than Azkaban.

With that turmoil in his head, Draco squeezes his eyes tighter shut and wills himself to sleep. No sense agonizing over it right now.

He wants a glass of water, but he’s still too scared to leave his bedroom.

He succumbs to sleep surprisingly quickly, the creamy sheets overpowering his addled mind.


	3. Chapter 3

Draco wakes up in a cold sweat, shivering and terrified. His throat is painfully dry and his head is pounding—he feels like he ran a million miles.

A nightmare about Azkaban. Draco’s plagued by them regularly and didn’t really expect that to stop simply from proximity.

After several minutes of lying in a panicked heap, Draco tries to sit up. He fails on the first attempt and tries again. He leans against the plain headboard, curled up in his now-damp, too-big t-shirt. The leather trousers stick to him like glue, and his pallid bangs cling to his forehead. He breathes heavily for a while and tries to summon the courage to leave. The room, that is. He needs water. Desperately.

And he needs to be useful for Neville. He’s determined about that. Waking up to a nightmare, however vivid, is infinitely better in a soft bed than the hard floor of his cell. And the dream reminds him of everything. It’s more than enough motivation for him to do whatever he needs to stay here.

On very shaky legs, Draco finally steps onto the carpet and slowly drudges across. He used to think of himself as graceful. That’s how his parents raised him. But that was before he grew accustomed to crawling, and he just wants to run back under the covers.

He scrunches his eyes closed and braces himself while he opens the door, half expecting to be cursed as soon as it happens. It’s a small, strange thing to think about, but he hasn’t opened a door in ages. Trying was, obviously, forbidden. When the door creaks open to an empty hallway, Draco cowers inside the frame for a few minutes, blinking at the pale glow of morning light.

The ceiling lights are off; it’s just from the windows. It must be very early. Draco closes his door softly behind him and walks across the hall in halted, worried footsteps. He takes a deep breath at the stairwell and has to will himself down.

Downstairs is another small hallway, a living room, and a kitchen. And a bathroom by the front door. Draco doesn’t dare go anywhere near the front door. He’ll use the upstairs bathroom, he’s decided. Across the living room is a screen door looking out on a fenced-off garden full of various, strange-looking plants. There’s a door under the stairway—perhaps to a closet or a basement; he isn’t sure. He wasn’t told to go there, so he won’t. He was given permission to the fridge. But he still just walks to the sink and trembles over it, not sure what to do.

A cup. He needs a cup. Where does Neville keep the cups? Does he dare rummage through the cupboards?

Too scared, Draco turns on the faucet and uses his hands, slurping up as much as he can. It’s messy and embarrassing, but it might be safer. He drinks, and drinks, and then drinks some more—he was never given that freedom in Azkaban. When he’s done, he wipes his mouth on his arm, feeling disgusting. His mother would scold him for such behaviour. ...But she’s the only Malfoy fortunate enough to avoid prison, so she wouldn’t understand.

Then Draco realizes he needs to piss, and that for the first time in a long time, he can actually use a bathroom. He’s way too happy about that as he climbs back up the stairs. He gets a jolt of joy out of closing the door behind himself. He can barely remember the sensation of privacy, but he likes it. When he’s done, he washes his hands, and eyes the two toothbrushes in the ceramic cup next to the sink. The bathroom is a dull mix of browns and whites, and the small amount of toiletries and products are scattered about the counter. Draco finds some toothpaste and tentatively retracts the green toothbrush.

He’s going to brush his teeth. He’s actually going to brush his teeth. He grits them to examine himself in the mirror and instantly grimaces.

It’s nothing he didn’t expect. But it’s still unpleasant to have proof. He’s thinner and paler than he used to be, and his hair is a mess and his eyes are lined in dark circles. He’s a wreck. He looks awful.

There’s a sinking feeling in his chest as he realizes that seducing Neville for the sake of his own protection might prove very, very difficult. Never mind that he’s an asshole with a terrible history and absolutely nothing to offer: he doesn’t even look good anymore.

He sits back on the toilet seat and scrubs his teeth facing the towel rack so he won’t have to look at his own reflection. The toothpaste swells up in his mouth and he stands to rinse his mouth out with his hands. Then he washes his hands again, because he got toothpaste on them. He uses the brown towel hanging next to the shower. There are only two towels in the whole bathroom. He wonders if Neville will mind.

Walking slowly back to the kitchen, Draco wonders what he can make for Neville that will require touching as few things as possible whilst providing the best results. He needs to prove that he’s worth keeping. But he doesn’t know where anything is in this kitchen or even what there is. He doesn’t touch the light switch, but the window does enough. 

The kitchen is white and brown and generic. Like the rest of the house. There are a few bottles and papers scattered messily on the counter and a few dishes in the sink. Draco does them first, because that’s something he can do. Basic cleaning. He’ll find out where the brooms and things are later. He uses the soap over the sink and the dishtowel hanging on the stove handle. He’s never washed dishes by hand before, but it’s not as though it’s something difficult to figure out. When everything’s away in the rack, drying with time instead of magic, he paces over to the fridge. It’s white and old-looking. He opens it to find a moderate mess of things, most of which are wrapped in plastic or in containers. Leftovers and things. Not the sort of thing Draco ate either before or during Azkaban. But he’s still cooked before; when he was younger, he used to make pancakes and things like that with his mother. She showed him how to use the stove, because at the time, he was too young to be allowed to use magic outside of school, and he wanted to learn so she taught him everything. The happy memories make his heart clench, and he goes for the eggs without thinking.

Omelets. Even he can make those, and it should only require the top of the stove. He thinks he can remember how to do it. He wonders vaguely if Neville’s stove (and fridge) use automatic magic like they’re supposed to, or that eleticity stuff that muggles have.

Draco gets out a cutting board and knife from the drying rack and dries them, then fishes through the crisper in the fridge. He finds peppers, mushrooms, and cheese, and chops little chunks of each to pour into the frying pan he places on the closest element. He finds the salt and pepper on a far counter and brings them over. Then he cracks in two eggs; he doesn’t know how hungry Neville will be. His own stomach growls, but he’ll deal with that later. (Although he does eat a slice of pepper when the longing becomes too much, and the natural taste of not-Azkaban-gruel swells in his mouth and makes him almost moan in ecstasy. He missed food.)

He turns on the element and cooks the omelet, praying the entire time that Neville will be happy with breakfast, rather than irritated that Draco touched his things without asking. Should he have asked? But then he would’ve had to wake Neville up, which he doesn’t dare do. At one point, he hears water rushing through pipes, and figures Neville’s awake. The anxiety eats at his insides like tapeworms.

When he finishes the omelet, he turns off the oven. He has to search for plates and silverware. He cringes at every open cupboard, although there’s nothing unusual in any of them. He wonders if Neville would want something on it, like ketchup, or... something. Well, he can come back for that, of course.

Okay. He’ll do the dishes after. He has to bring Neville the breakfast as soon as possible, before Neville comes down and sees him messing with things out of context. He takes a few minutes to breathe deeply and summon the courage. And then he hates himself. He knows he’s never been particularly brave, but this is getting ridiculous.

Finally he picks up the plate full of egg and vegetables and a fork and a knife. (Does Neville like vegetables? Hopefully—they were in his fridge, after all.) He walks carefully back up the stairs, gratefully when he’s back on carpet. The kitchen is linoleum and it’s cold against his bare feet.

At the top of the stairs, Neville’s door is open, and Draco takes a nervous breath between nudging it wider and stepping inside. Neville isn’t there, but a pile of clothes are laid out on the bed. Draco walks a few steps in and hears the bathroom door open. It’s too late to move, so he waits for Neville to come in, holding the food out like a waiter.

When Neville appears in the door, Draco almost drops the plate. His cheeks flush heavily.

Neville has a towel around his waist and nothing else. His skin is still slightly damp, his dark hair is wet around his forehead, and Draco’s eyes follow a single bead of water from his collarbone down his chest.

He’s fucking gorgeous.

Draco gulps and quickly looks aside, before Neville can notice he’s staring. He didn’t need to know that Neville had strong shoulders, or tight pecs, or a six-pack. He didn’t need to know that Neville grew into the perfect proportions and looks like something right out of one of Draco’s wet dreams. Apparently, the Auror life suits him well. His complexion is slightly sun-kissed, smooth, clear, and hard. Tall, dark-haired, and handsome. He’s flawless. How did Draco miss that in school? Did Neville look like that in school? It’s strange to think that the bumbling idiot he teased in first year grew into... this.

Then he scowls, but mostly over himself. This is Neville Longbottom. A Gryffindork, and Auror—the enemy. He’s not that handsome; Draco’s being silly. Anyway, this is about survival, nothing else. He’s only thinking about Neville like that for the sake of saving his own hide, that’s all, and that’s the only reason he’s going to do his best at seduction. That’s all.

Neville breaks the silence first to levelly say, “Do you need something?”

Draco gulps again and says, “I made you breakfast,” and then looks again so he can hold out the plate. He shouldn’t have looked again. He tries to stay fixed on Neville’s face and not the light sprinkling of brown hair trailing down beneath the towel. He tries to keep his features acceptably haughty and tilts his chin up.

“Oh,” Neville says. He looks somewhat surprised. “Er... thanks.” After a moment of very awkward nothingness, Neville takes the plate and walks around Draco to place it on the nightstand. Then he looks over his shoulder expectantly.

Draco... doesn’t know what else to do. He knows making breakfast isn’t establishing enough of a use to keep him safe long. He wrings his hands together while he thinks about it—about what he’ll need to do. He should... well, he should be trying to seduce Neville, really—that’s usually the most compelling use for an Auror to keep an otherwise intolerable person around...

Draco hasn’t flirted in a very, very long time. Even before the war, he had more important things to worry about. Honestly, he never thought it would be a problem—he was handsome, rich, and confident—he’d just pick someone up when he felt like it and that person would be happy—and lucky—to have him. In retrospect, that thought process seems vaguely... stupid.

He sniffs. Well, not entirely stupid. He could still look good, with a bit of work. He might not have money anymore, but he still came from money, and he’s still a pureblood. He is smart, despite these recent spells of ill-adjustment. He’ll get his confidence back eventually. It’s not like he doesn’t know his way around the bedroom—he fooled around a bit with Blaise in school, and once or twice with Theodore Nott. He knows what he’s doing. He can do this. For the sake of staying away from Azkaban, he will do this.

He breathes out heavily and drawls, in his best pre-seduction voice, low and a little throaty, “Did you have a good shower?”

Neville’s already turned around and is reaching for his boxers. He mutters neutrally while slipping them on under the towel, “Are there bad showers?” Was that sarcasm? Draco’s cheeks tint again. “The bathroom’s free now.”

Oh. Right. Draco should take a shower, and change out of these still-slightly-damp, very-ill-fitting clothes. And put on socks. Neville drops the towel so he can step into his trousers, and Draco immediately looks away, but not before getting a good look at Neville in boxers. Oh fuck. Draco should’ve left the room earlier. Does Neville think this is okay because Draco’s just a slave and doesn’t count? Or that they’re both supposedly straight? Draco isn’t. Shit. Neville probably is; somehow that didn’t occur to him earlier. But why would a straight man buy a male slave? That doesn’t make sense. Crap. Neville looks like an underwear model.

He’s a Gryffindor. He’s Neville freaking Longbottom. He’s a stupid blood-traitor Gryffindor that was a complete idiot for the majority of their school years and he’s completely beneath Draco, no matter what their current statuses are. Draco tells himself these things firmly. He’s not lusting after a Gryffindor already. He’s just... trying to survive. Yes. Any good Slytherin would do the same. Hell, Severus lived lie after lie to kowtow to the Dark Lord for years, and Draco respects his godfather more than almost anyone else in the universe. 

“Erm...” Draco murmurs, trying to start this up again before too much time passes. Neville’s pulling his shirt over his head. “You... work out a lot?” Fuck, that was stupid.

Neville grumbles, “I’m an Auror,” whilst tugging on a sweater-vest that only he could make hot. (Shit. Draco didn’t just think that.)

Draco says, “It shows,” quietly. Then Neville looks around at him, with an incredible, ‘what the fuck’ look on his way-too-handsome features. Draco tries to look cool and hold that gaze. Like he’s just saying whatever and it’s no big deal. Then it becomes a sort of staring contest that he refuses to lose. 

Neville breaks it to walk over to his drawers and pull out socks. Draco watches him put them on with ridiculous jealousy. Non-prisoners don’t know how lucky they are; they don’t know the kind of little things they take for granted. It just goes to show what a shitty person Draco is; that makes him angry rather than sad.

When Neville turns around again, fully dressed like a muggle and hot and Draco hates it, he says in mild irritation, “Are you sure you don’t need anything?”

Draco flushes hotly and says, “No,” very stiffly. Then he turns to the door and walks swiftly out, because this isn’t working and he’s making a mess of everything.

He keeps walking until he’s back in his room, where he closes the door. Time to analyze.

He didn’t seem to get many brownie points for breakfast. That’s bad.

He didn’t get hit or cursed. That’s good.

Seduction attempts, albeit not very good ones, went nowhere. That’s bad.

Neville’s hot. That’s horrible. He’s probably a pureblood, but he dresses like a muggle and may or may not be straight. He’s definitely a mystery. Draco scowls. He hates mysteries.

He hates everything except being here in general, and he’s got to find a way to stay.


	4. Chapter 4

Draco’s sitting on the beige couch with his feet luxuriously on the glass coffee table. He’s staring at the black screen of the muggle telelision or whatever that thing is. It’s the thing Neville said he could watch when he gets bored.

Well, he’s bored. And he has no idea how to work this telelision thing, which apparently doesn’t respond to voice-commands, and he’s not particularly keen on doing anything muggle, anyway.

So he’s staring at it and enjoying the sensation of lounging, which is a concept he very much missed. As soon as Neville gets home from work, he’ll straighten up, of course. He’ll take his feet off the coffee table and get down on his hands and knees to greet his master or something. Except that he hasn’t quite figured out Neville’s schedule yet so he’ll more likely just tumble off in surprise.

Maybe he should wait naked, just in case. It can’t be too much longer now—maybe he’ll just kneel at the door and wait. He could probably take a book, if he can find a book worth reading. He could go under Neville’s bed and open his box and pull out his leash, and hold it in his mouth for when his master comes home. Because Neville hasn’t really been looking at Draco otherwise, and frankly it’s really starting to bother him. Because even though it is Neville Longbottom, he’s Draco Malfoy, and doesn’t Neville understand how lucky he is to have Draco practically throwing himself at his feet? After living with his parents and sharing a dorm at Hogwarts for so many years, Draco’s used to getting attention from those around him. And not getting that attention is bothering him. ... _A lot_.

He’s done other stuff to be useful, of course. He’s cleaned every centimeter of the house—scrubbed the bathtub and the kitchen floors and dusted every bookshelf—all by hand, as he doesn’t have access to magic. He’s cleaned himself and he’s dressed in mildly-loose black trousers and a too-large blue jumper. It smells thickly like Neville and Draco doesn’t want to admit that he likes that, because stupid Neville wouldn’t appreciate it. He’s got dinner cooking in the oven and that doesn’t really matter, because after being a househusband all day, Draco thinks he’d rather be for sex than domestic duties, anyway. He’s not a house elf.

He’s not sure if he’s more nervous or upset about being basically ignored, and the unease and irritation have been stapled to his back all day.

Then the front door opens, and Draco scrambles off the couch, thankful that there isn’t a clear view between them. The curtains to the living room are open, and the low sunlight peers in through the strange plants in the backyard and spills into the house. Draco rushes to Neville and waits for him to say, “Hi,” first.

Then Draco stiffly says, “Hello,” and Neville raises an eyebrow, probably at how almost-aristocratic his voice has returned to being. Draco wonders too late if he should take Neville’s robes, but they’re already draping over the hanger.

Draco walks over to the kitchen, expecting Neville to follow.

Instead, Neville walks right past him and the footsteps disappear up the stairway. Draco whirls around and turns pink at being ignored again, stomach clenching. He’s not sure why he can’t just be happy with Neville leaving him alone, but he can’t be. The more attention he doesn’t get, the more he wants, and he tries to keep the petty glare off his face as he waits for Neville to come back.

Neville does a moment later, with his tie gone and his shirt tucked out of his pants. He strolls into the kitchen, again right past Draco, and stops in front of the oven. “Oh, are you making something?”

Draco sniffs, “Yes,” coldly. “I made you dinner.”

Neville turns around then and raises an eyebrow at Draco. “You made me dinner?”

Draco says, “Yes,” again, this time hotly. His cheeks are flushed.

Neville looks mildly disgruntled and after a minute mumbles, “Er... thank you?”

Draco rolls his eyes and gets the oven mitts off the counter. (What sort of wizard has oven mitts, anyway? Those are for children and muggles.) Neville steps aside as Draco opens the oven and pulls out the lasagna, placing it gingerly atop the stove. Then he moves to the cupboard in search of plates, as Neville says, slightly disbelieving, “You made lasagna?”

Suddenly nervous all over again, Draco looks over his shoulder, a plate clutched tightly in his hands. “Er... you do like lasagna, don’t you...?”

“It’s one of my favourite foods, actually,” Neville grins. “I’m shit at making it, though, it’s sort of complicated.”

Draco snorts, and then immediately regrets it. Only Longbottom could fuck up a pasta dish. But he shouldn’t say that out loud, especially not when that particular failure still owns him. Draco momentarily considers explaining why he, as someone who grew up rich and with a house elf, knows how to cook despite Neville’s probable assumptions. But then he reevaluates telling his life story to a Gryffindor, and he just sets out the cutlery and plates on the counter.

Should he serve Neville or leave them? Would that be courteous or presumptuous? While he’s deciding, Neville serves himself, to which Draco breathes a sigh of relief. Neville cuts himself a sizeable piece and promptly takes his plate into the living room.

Draco follows on instinct, and when Neville sits down at the table between the couch and the wall of the kitchen, Draco sits at his feet. Neville’s barely put his plate down when he turns to look at Draco, who’s kneeling next to Neville’s chair.

“What are you doing?”

“Sitting down.”

Neville rolls his eyes, to which Draco feels both shocked and affronted. “Yeah, I get that. Why?”

With tremendous effort Draco stifles a return-sneer and grumbles, “This is how slaves are fed.”

Neville blinks at him. Draco almost cringes at the pity that flicks into those hazel eyes. After a minute, Neville slowly says, “Draco, I’m not going to feed you. You can feed yourself.” A chill runs up Draco’s spine at being addressed, for the first time, by his first name. “And you’re not a slave. You’re a prisoner.”

Before Draco can stop himself, he’s breathed ruefully, “Your prisoner.” To his intense surprise, Neville’s cheeks turn a little pink: another first. Neville shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

“Look, just go get your own plate, okay?”

Draco blinks and mumbles, again too fast to stop, “I’m only supposed to eat your leftovers.” He wonders vaguely if Neville listened to the rules Dawlish told him at all. This was all covered in Draco’s condition, and honestly, he would’ve suspected as much, anyway. He doesn’t want to get punished later for misbehaving now.

But Neville snaps, “That’s not going to happen! Go get your own plate!” Then he puts his elbow heavily on the table, which makes it rock a bit and Draco startle, and Neville leans his head in his hand. He breathes out deeply and mutters, “Sorry. I don’t mean to yell. Just... just go get your own food, okay?”

Draco instantly shoots to his feet. He’s about to turn back to the kitchen when Neville grabs his wrist, and Draco freezes immediately. His shoulders hunch up on instinct, body tensing. Neville lets go as if burned, cheeks still pink, and Draco stares at the spot on his jumper where that strong hand left.

“Look, thanks for the lasagna.”

Draco nods silently and leaves for the kitchen.

He gets himself a smaller plate, assumes Neville wants him to use cutlery despite his conditioning, and walks back to the living room. He sits down next to Neville’s chair again, and looks up expectantly.

Neville’s head falls back into his hands, and he grumbles, “You know what, just eat in the other room—this is too sad to look at.” His face is as red as Draco’s, although Draco doesn’t know why. He seems to be trying to look anywhere but at Draco.

So Draco goes back to the kitchen with a pool of hopelessness swirling in his chest.


	5. Chapter 5

Draco hates muggle movies. Even the old ‘classic’ ones, as Neville calls them—the black and white ones with the horrible crinkling effect across the screen and the terrible puppets and ‘special effects.’ Draco didn’t say this, of course. He’s not going to admit to hating something that Neville clearly likes, not until he’s one hundred percent sure he won’t be punished, anyway. But the displeasure must have been evident on his face, because Neville tried several different ones before deeming Draco, “Impossible,” and settling for whatever this is. Draco’s never been good at feigning nice, anyway.

This is an Inferi movie. Or a ‘zombie’ movie, as the muggles in the film call it. But Draco thinks they must not know what they’re talking about, because they’re all doing a terrible job surviving, let alone fighting. The movie’s already down to half the original cast, and while Draco feels like he’s been forced to watch for hours, it’s probably only actually been half an hour at the most. (Well, ‘forced’ is a relative term. He could probably leave anytime he wants to, but then he’d be bored again, so...)

He’s sitting on the couch next to Neville. He tried, at first, to sit on the floor at Neville’s feet, but that resulted in another frustrated pseudo-argument. The couch is comfortable, at least, even if he isn’t.

There’s a bowl of popcorn on Neville’s other side. Draco has to reach across Neville whenever he wants a bite, and more than once, he’s dropped his hand too low on purpose. It’s not so much that he’s being ignored anymore—they’ve shared a dry comment here and there on the ridiculous muggles’ antics—but it’s still not nearly as much attention as he’d like. And it’s still not a proper use. (He feels like a preening cat that can’t get his master to pet him.)

He’s being subtle, of course. Aside from an initial questioning look, Neville hasn’t noticed much. Or let on to noticing, anyway. The last time Draco went for popcorn, he even pretended to be too busy watching the screen to properly guide his hand; he trailed it across Neville’s thighs in deceptive exploration. When he looked under the guise of finding the popcorn bowl, Neville had a faint glow to his cheeks, his eyes were stubbornly fixed forward, and his lap was perhaps a little more full than before.

Draco eats his handful and slumps a little, scheming like the Slytherin he’s still proud to be.

“Aw, what? Don’t go in there...” Neville mumbles disappointedly at the tele... television.

“They’re all fools,” Draco drawls lamely.

“Apparently.” The lights are off in the living room and it’s late, so the gravekeeper’s lamp on the other side of the screen is the only thing to see by. It’s more like a theatre that way, Neville said when they started. It’s sort of romantic—not that Draco at all wants this to be romantic—he’s just working on survival strategies, of course. An Infer- zombie pops a hand out of the earth and the gravekeeper’s lamp swings in and out of view, and a woman’s shrill scream overpowers the sound of chewing popcorn.

Draco’s too impatient to be subtle for long. While Neville’s distracted watching the malformed team of survivors bolt, Draco shifts a little so their knees are touching. When their shoulders bump, Neville spills a bit of popcorn in his lap.

Before he can pick it back up, Draco’s turning his body. He leans down over Neville’s lap and sticks out his tongue. He doesn’t miss the sharp intake of breath above him. He flattens it over the zipper of Neville’s jeans and slowly licks his way to the first kernel of popcorn. He places a cautious-but-quick hand on Neville’s thigh and scoops up the popcorn into his mouth. He picks up the other two pieces the same way, with too much tongue and perhaps a bit of unnecessary nuzzling. When the popcorn’s adequately gone, Draco swipes his tongue over the leftover butter stains, tilts his face to look up at Neville, as seductively as he can manage.

Neville has the back of his hand at his mouth, like he’s trying not to make noise. The heavy breathing in the film overshadows his. His eyebrows are knit together in confusion, and otherwise he just looks... handsome. (Objectively speaking, of course.)

Draco does his best to slip off the couch without moving his head, although he does have to adjust the angle. He nestles between the coffee table and Neville’s legs and pushes them apart without much resistance. His hands stay there afterwards, lingering on Neville’s strong thighs, and he subconsciously thumbs the rough denim. He looks up at Neville questioningly, as he catches Neville’s zipper in his teeth.

Neville mutters, “Draco,” warningly. But his voice is a little breathless, and Draco can’t quite tell if it’s a warning to continue or to stop.

Because he’s mostly selfish, Draco assumes ‘don’t stop.’ He’s never had anyone turn down his sexual advances before (albeit he isn’t usually the aggressor) and it’s certainly not about to start now. He knows he’s still tired-looking and too-thin, of course—has still seen better days—but he also know he can be hot when he tries. He knows how to lower his eyelids, and how to push the lust to the surface, and how to pout his lips just so. He knows what to do with his mouth and his tongue, and his hands and his body. But Draco still doesn’t want to give Neville the chance to reconsider, so he tugs that zipper downwards.

He could probably get everything out with his mouth, but that would take lots of time and stumbling. He’s too impatient, and Neville’s too much of a wild card. He uses his hands to nimbly slip under Neville’s waistband and boxers. When his fingers wrap around Neville’s dick, he can’t help but release a tiny moan. He pulls it out entirely too eagerly, and it juts up proudly, already half-hard and warm in Draco’s hands. Above him, Neville makes a heated growling sound, and Draco licks his lips.

It’s bigger than he thought it would be. Fuck, it’s bigger than he is, he realizes with mild embarrassment. It’s longer and wider than both Blaise and Theo were, and it’s straighter and better-looking. The thick, musky scent fills his nostrils, and he takes in every detail from the dark curls at the base to the reddening mushroom head. He shouldn’t think it’s good-looking. But he does. He swallows in spite of himself and tries to tell himself that he doesn’t like it—he’s not interested in Neville Longbottom’s cock. He’s just doing what he has to. Yes. He doesn’t want to be in Azkaban. He isn’t... isn’t going to enjoy this...

Except that, damnit, he is. His own traitorous dick is getting hard below him, while he leans in close enough to lick tentatively at the head.

“Fucking hell, Malfoy...”

Draco looks up at Neville while his lips part wide enough to stretch around the tip. He pops it into his mouth like a lollipop and laps at it hungrily, tonguing the slit and sucking slightly. Neville throws his head back with another muffled swear, and Draco gets both a rush of satisfaction at eliciting that reaction and a spark of irritation in his chest that he can’t see the Neville’s expression anymore.

At least it’s no longer a distraction. Draco lets his eyes fall closed and slips expertly down the now-very-hard cock, sucking as he goes and flattening his tongue along the underside. He keeps his jaw as wide as he can, careful with his teeth, and goes slowly so as not to choke himself. Neville twitches in his mouth, but thankfully doesn’t buck upwards. If he did, Draco would definitely gag. It’s too big for him to be fast. It tastes sort of bland and sort of salty, and he keeps going, going, until the tip of the spongy head hits the back of his throat. Neville swears again and Draco adjusts. Then he hollows out his cheeks and sucks, hard, and Neville’s hand shoots to his hair. Draco smirks around his mouthful at the throaty moan he causes. So much for not getting attention. He dares Neville to ignore him after this.... At least his master’s petting him now.

Moving back is a little difficult, because Neville’s holding his head in place, and as much as Draco’s down for hair-pulling, he doesn’t actually want to have any torn out. He tries to shift backwards gently, to signal to Neville to let him move. His eyes flutter open and he looks back up to see Neville staring down, flushed and, to Draco’s triumphant delight, very, very aroused. His pupils are dilated and his mouth is a little open, teeth grit together. He loosens his grip enough for Draco to move. Draco hums happily around the dick in his mouth as a reward, and from the way Neville’s eyelids flutter, Draco assumes he likes it.

Of course he would. Draco smirks. Draco’s good at a lot of things, and giving head is definitely one of them. He was good at it before Azkaban, when it was a skill to one-up and/or manipulate his peers, and he was good at it in Azkaban, where it was a survival necessity. Honestly, he never thought he’d actually enjoy it again, but as he bobs up and down and sucks and tastes, his own trousers get tighter and tighter, and he finds himself moaning despite himself. Neville’s a good sport—he keeps his hips still and he makes all the noises Draco wants him to, and he holds Draco’s head loosely and doesn’t choke him. The smell of sex is thick in the air and it gets to Draco in a way it hasn’t for a long time. He wants to get off again. He wants sex again, really _sex_ , that he _chose_ , and as much as Draco tells himself this isn’t true sex—he’s doing it for a purpose and it’s Neville fucking Longbottom—he still wants it and he _is_ choosing this...

On a particularly hard suck, as loud and wet as he can, Neville’s fist tightens in his hair, and he holds Draco down suddenly, right at the base with his chin in Neville’s balls and his nose in his the dark hair and his lips as stretched as they’ll go. Neville comes with a howl, and Draco has to quickly will his gag reflex to be still as Neville’s seed explodes in his mouth, shooting straight down his throat. It’s hot and sticky, and Draco struggles to swallow it all, but he can’t keep up, and some of it wells up in his mouth so he can taste it everywhere. He tries to look up at Neville, but he’s too busy trying to keep it all in his mouth to take in much. Draco sucks and sucks until it’s all out. He doesn’t slip off Neville’s wet, spent cock until he’s sure he got it all.

It makes a wet popping sound as it goes, and it leaves a thin trail of spit and semen that Draco has to lick off his lips. Then he leans, panting, against Neville’s jean-covered-leg, and tries not to palm himself through his own trousers. (Because that would be admitting that he’s almost worked himself to orgasm just from sucking off Neville, and that’s ridiculous.)

After a minute, Neville hisses, “Fuck.”

Draco automatically winces at Neville’s tone despite himself. He looks up questioningly—Neville’s raking a shaking hand through his slightly sweat-mussed hair. For a moment, Draco wonders if he’s done something wrong—if he crossed a line. ..But, come on, Neville had to enjoy that, too, right? Surely that showed he was useful, much more so here than prison... surely... surely Neville’s not mad...

But Neville looks mad, if not entirely at Draco. After glaring pointedly at the ceiling for a minute or two, he looks back down at Draco and grumbles bluntly, “Why are you being such a slut?”

There’s a stab in Draco’s chest that he can’t quite explain. His face falls, and he shifts uncomfortably off Neville’s thigh. Neville’s trousers are still undone, and Draco kneels between Neville’s legs like a kicked puppy. He wonders vaguely what he should say—the truth or something... more Gryffindor-friendly.

Something in Neville’s eyes keeps Draco from lying, and he mutters nervously, “I just... just wanted to... establish my use...”

“What?” The anger falls from Neville’s face immediately and is replaced in steeped confusion and slight pity, or maybe disgust.

“I... I don’t want to go back to Azkaban...” Draco’s trembling in spite of himself; just talking about it is a nightmare. “I just want to be useful to you...” His voice is cracking. Oh Merlin, this is pathetic. He’s cracking to a blood-traitor and the mood is gone and he’s shaking. At least he’s not going to say that he also sort of _wants Neville_...

Neville stands up abruptly, and Draco stumbles backwards. Neville takes a deep breath as he tucks himself back into his trousers and zips himself back up. The movie plays on, unnoticed, in the background. Draco doesn’t stand up. Neville says, a little shakily, “You don’t have to do that. ...I mean it.” And then he takes another breath, like he wants to say something else.

But then he closes his mouth and leaves.

And Draco feels even more neglected and worried than before, but now with the mingled confusion of his own disloyal feelings.


	6. Chapter 6

After stewing it over for a good while and getting absolutely nowhere, Draco finds himself in front of Neville’s bedroom door. In Neville’s fleece pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt, he rocks back and forth nervously on the balls of his bare feet and worries. Several minutes later, he knocks gently on the wood. There’s a muffled stirring sound on the other side; he probably woke Neville up.

Neville’s tired voice grumbles, “Come in,” so Draco, full of bristling trepidation, does.

The door’s too loud, and he closes it behind himself. He walks over to the bed where Neville’s tucked in, shirtless and so not helping. The lamp atop the nightstand is on, and otherwise it’s dark. As Draco draws closer, Neville sits up (revealing more of his toned chest) and shuffles aside, which Draco takes as an invitation. He crawls onto the bed but keeps his distance. This is hard enough.

He works his bottom lip in his teeth and wonders how he bothered over this for so long and still didn’t come up with anything to say. So he comes up with something new. With his knees pulled up to his chest, he drawls, “They told me I’d sleep on the floor by your bed, in case you wanted me.” He sniffs and adds, “...You don’t, so...”

He chances a glance at Neville, only to catch a predictable eye roll. Draco wonders for the billionth time when Neville became the moody one. That’s supposed to be Draco’s role. After much effort suppressing a sneer, he sniffs, “Are you mad at me?”

Neville looks sideways at him. Draco stares back and searches for clues he never finds. Neville’s strong features are aglow in the soft yellow light, and his hair is a little tousled from lying down. He takes his time before saying, slowly, “I’m not mad at you.” And then he takes his time again.

Draco stays awkwardly in place, until Neville breathes out deeply and lifts up the blankets. There’s a slightly begrudging tone to his voice as he mutters, “Get in.” While Draco raises a curious eyebrow Neville adds hastily, cheeks suddenly a little flushed, “Not for that. Just... I think we need to talk, and it’s...” He looks around Draco at the clock on the nightstand. “It’s waaay too late for me to stay upright.” (Neville’s sort of cute when he blushes.)

It occurs to Draco to say sorry, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just takes the invitation to climb between the warm covers, still marveling at the soft feeling. It still feels new, days later, and he still loves it. He settles in a tad prissily and rolls onto his side, eyes alight with the accomplishment of being in bed together. He’s breaking Neville’s resolve, he thinks, and even if he isn’t, they should talk. In his personal opinion, Draco’s good at winning verbal arguments. He’s a Slytherin, after all, and a Malfoy, and he’s going to get his way even if that way is... somewhat underhanded and unnecessary. Neville rolls to face him too, head and hands nestled in the white pillows. He pulls the crimson blankets up over his shoulders, and Draco silently laments the loss of a great view. He tries not to wonder what Neville’s wearing, if anything, lower under those sheets.

“First of all,” Neville starts, and Draco’s eyes shoot back up immediately. “I meant what I said on the first day. You don’t have to keep looking at me like I’m going to hit you.”

Draco asks before he can stop himself, “How do you want me to be?”

Neville’s face falls and he says a little sadly, “...Don’t ask me that. I want you to be like yourself.” The pity in Neville’s face bothers Draco.

And Draco wonders, eyebrows knit together, if Neville really means that. Neville remembers what Draco’s like, surely—what he’s really like. He’s never been kind to anyone other than his parents, Gryffindors especially, and if Neville’s often rolling his eyes and glaring now, Draco can only imagine what he’d be like faced with Draco fully being... Draco. He’ll never be completely the same, not after Azkaban. But he’ll still be a brat and a bitch and a general prick, and he can’t imagine why Neville would want that.

But Neville repeats, “I’m serious. I don’t care if you aren’t an angel; I’d rather you be a person.”

Draco almost says, ‘I can be a better person for you,’ but doesn’t, because he probably can’t. What he means is he can pretend, maybe.

Instead, he waits for Neville to continue, and when it’s apparent that Draco’s determined to be uncharacteristically silent, Neville does. “Another thing. About what happened before—you don’t have to do... stuff like that. I know you’re scared and you think it’ll help, but I’m not going to send you back to Azkaban, okay? I’m just not. You don’t have to sleep with me to stay here.” He says it very seriously, with his eyes fixated on Draco. Then he grins slightly and adds, “Although I’m flattered you like it here so much.”

Draco flushes and starts to snap, “Of c—” but cuts himself off with a strangled full-body blush. He was about to say, ‘of course, it’s obviously better than Azkaban. Duh.’ He’s totally losing it. The longer he stays here, the more his conditioning falls away, and despite what Neville says, Draco’s sure that isn’t a good thing.

Neville’s grin reaches a little wider, and he says, “See, that’s what I want you to do. Just finish the thought next time. I’m a big boy; I can handle it.”

Neville isn’t the kid Draco picked on in school anymore. Knowing that doesn’t really make ‘being himself’ any easier. Now, Neville’s capable of hitting him back. Now, if they got into a fight, Neville would win. ...Especially because Draco doesn’t have a wand, and probably physically can’t hurt his master. He changes the subject to a very Slytherin semi-lie, “I wanted to do it. What happened during the movie, I mean.”

“No, you didn’t.” Neville’s knowing smirk plays tricks on Draco’s head. It makes his stomach flutter awkwardly and his mind wonder when the hell Neville Longbottom started smirking. “I’m not stupid, Draco, despite what you tried to tell me for years. You don’t like me and you were just trying to save your own skin.” Draco flinches into a scowl, though Neville doesn’t look mad.

“Well, it wasn’t that bad,” Draco drawls stubbornly. To his mingled delight and horror, Neville laughs. Just a short chuckle. In light of how good this is going, he chances adding, “And it can’t have been that bad for you, either.” He finishes with a pretentious sniff, and a you’re-lucky-to-have-had-me haughty expression. To his relief, Neville keeps grinning.

“I wasn’t trying to knock you. You were more than satisfactory.”

“Satisfactory?” Draco glares.

Neville rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to stroke your ego any more than that, Malfoy. Merlin knows you don’t need it.”

And then he rolls over, like that’s it and they’re done.

Draco is severely taken aback. He starts and stares at the set of strong shoulders in front of him, a safe distance away but still close enough to touch. He on-purpose doesn’t flick off the lamp. Because they most certainly are not done and there’s still a whole hell of a lot to talk about, and damnit Neville’s started this and he can’t just stop without finishing it.

Then Neville mumbles, “Can you turn off the light?”

Draco rolls over and does it. Then he hates himself afterwards. He turns back onto his side and continues to watch Neville’s back in the darkness. The starlight that trickles through the thick curtains hardly shows anything. Draco knows exactly where Neville is. He tries to will Neville to roll back over and glares through the night when he doesn’t.

The silver lining to this, of course, is that apparently they’re on share-a-bed status now, which, as casually as it’s treated by Neville, is a big step for Draco. It means that his seduction attempts aren’t a flop, and even if he indeed doesn’t have to do it to stay safe, he still sort of wants to do it, just to spite Neville for not paying him enough attention. (Yes, that’s it.) He feels five years old again, wanting his father to pick him up.

Draco turns onto his back and tries to get comfy. The thought occurs to him belatedly that this might be a one time thing, because Neville’s so sleepy and out-of-it, and he might very well send Draco back to his own room tomorrow. But Draco doesn’t want to think about that, so he doesn’t.

He tries to will himself to sleep before Neville can wake up properly and kick him out. He closes his eyes and tries to school his breathing.

But his mind is restless.

After several minutes of quiet, Draco drawls quietly into the darkness, “Why did you even buy me?”

He isn’t even sure Neville’s awake. He shouldn’t have said that. It’s too big a question, with too many life-destroying-possibilities for answers. A part of him hopes to Merlin that Neville didn’t hear him. But he’s still half-relieved when Neville shifts slowly back around to face him, and their eyes lock and Draco’s stomach flutters again.

Even in the lack of light between them, Draco can see that Neville’s clearly struggling. It takes him a long time to say, very quietly, “...I heard someone else was going to buy you. And I heard that person bragging about exactly what he was going to do to you. It wasn’t pretty. And even as much as I thought I hated you, I couldn’t sit by and let that happen.”

Draco’s frozen with the weight of this admission. It isn’t any of the things he thought it could be, and in the height of his surprise, he can’t determine if it’s better or worse.

For some reason, Neville says, “I’m sorry,” and reaches out a hand to put on Draco’s shoulder.

Worse, Draco realizes. It’s worse. Because Neville didn’t want him at all, he’s just being a stupid Gryffindor doing his stupid duty. And it’s nothing personal and Neville isn’t interested in him. He sort of wants to hit Neville’s hand away. Either the collar is stopping him, or he can’t bring himself to.

After a minute, he asks, “Who?” Although he has a few ideas.

Neville hesitates again before saying, “Dawlish. I’m not going to lie; I’ve got a bit of a personal grudge against him. He attacked my grandmother once during the war. ...She was okay, I mean, but it’s the principle.”

“And you didn’t want him to have me?” His voice sounds cold.

“I didn’t want him to hurt you. ...I didn’t know you were going to come on to me like that, though...”

“I’m sorry for forcing myself on you,” Draco grunts bitterly. There, sarcasm. Neville wanted the real him, after all.

“That’s not what I meant. I’m not blaming you.” Draco remains silent and sort of hopes Neville can see his glare, and sort of hopes he can’t. Neville probably has an inkling, because he shifts and adds, as if trying to patch things up, “Look, it’s not that I didn’t enjoy it. I did. I just feel bad about your motives.”

“Well, cut it out.”

Neville’s hand is still on his shoulder, and it tightens a little. In warning? Draco isn’t sure. “Draco, I bought you so you wouldn’t be taken advantage of; I don’t want to turn around and do it myself. I don’t know why you’re taking it as a personal insult. It has nothing to do with whether or not I’m attracted to you or want you, it’s simply that the war’s over and I’ve had enough of the sadism on both sides. You’re here, you’re safe, and Dawlish or any other Auror that got a little bent in the war can’t touch you.” A breath, and he finishes, firmly, “It’ll be okay. Just be yourself and relax.”

Draco tries very, very hard to relax. Because this bed is so warm, and the sheets are so soft, and the pillows are so nice and Neville’s hand is so... comforting. Neville’s strong scent is all over the bed, and it’s silent in the room—no cries or groans like in Azkaban, or even creaking and whispering like during the war at the manor. He’s safely in bed with a very attractive man, who technically hasn’t yet denied finding Draco attractive in return.

It’s still difficult for him to be calm though, knowing the circumstances. It’s such a weak reason, he thinks, for Neville to buy him, and despite Neville’s reassurances, it’s hard for him to have faith. Without turning around again, Neville mumbles sleepily, “And don’t make me breakfast in the morning. I appreciate you cooking for me, but tomorrow just settle down and unwind so I don’t die of guilt.”

Draco scrunches up his nose and curses himself for being awake to hear that. Great. Now he can’t even make breakfast. He’s a useless ball of inner turmoil and he rolls over to face away from Neville grumpily.

Only a few moments after, Neville’s breathing evens out and deepens, Draco drifts off surprisingly quickly, and for the first time in a very, very long time, only dreams of good things.


	7. Chapter 7

Draco wakes up in the middle of the bed, stretched out luxuriously on his stomach. The crimson covers are up to his chin, the sheets are tangled between his legs. The morning light filters through the window and makes him squint for the first few seconds, while last night dribbles back to him.

Sitting up slowly, he rubs at his eyes, but the bed is otherwise empty. Neville must have left for work already. Draco stifles a yawn with a scowl.

Then he climbs gingerly off the bed and pads across the soft carpet to the guest room that’s supposed to be his. He pauses in the hallway to listen, but the house is silent. Neville’s probably gone. Draco frowns and keeps walking.

His bed is still made from yesterday, and Draco glances at it resentfully. It didn’t do anything, really, and only a few days ago, he honestly felt that that bed was one of the best things to ever happen to him. But now it’s just one more thing that keeps him separate, keeps him alone and unattended, and he doesn’t want to sleep in it again. (Not alone, anyway.)

Opening the closet, Draco fishes through the assortment of barely-suitable hand-me-downs at his disposal. Eventually, he settles on a pair of muggle jeans and a plain black turtleneck. The turtleneck is something he might even wear normally, if it was even remotely the correct size. He’s willing to bet right now it isn’t.

Next, he retrieves socks and boxers from the drawers. He’s halfway to the shower when he realizes, mid-step, that he’s been wearing Neville’s boxers.

He keeps walking stubbornly and is grateful there’s no one around to witness his intense blush. He doesn’t lock the bathroom door though, because he still isn’t sure if he has a right to. Inside, he strips out of his borrowed pajamas slowly whilst examining himself in the mirror.

He’s filling out a little better. The dark circles around his eyes are becoming less apparent, and his cheeks are less gaunt. The black collar stands out against his fair skin; he’s still locked away from most sunlight, although he does, technically, have permission to stray to the garden. He doesn’t go much, but it’s still more than what he got in Azkaban, and he isn’t quite as deathly pale. Though, he’s still far less radiant than he used to be, and he brushes his hands vainly through his hair in an attempt to recapture some semblance of attractiveness.

When he’s done being silly, he turns on the shower. He sets the water to scalding hot and lunges in. He pulls the door of the shower closed. He stands under the fiery stream and tries not to think about anything. Because thinking about things leads to discoveries like wearing Neville’s underwear, and he’s not exactly sure how that makes him feel.

He’s sort of bitter, in a way, that they can be intimate in worthless ways like that, and not in ways that actually matter. Is he that ruined, that unattractive? He practically threw himself at Neville, and apparently Neville has no good reason not to take him up on the offer, so why the rejection? (Gryffindor morality is not a good reason.)

Shit. He wasn’t going to think about that...

But there’s not much else to think about. There’s hardly anything to pass the time while he waits for Neville to come home, especially if he can’t cook breakfast today. (Can he prepare dinner? Perhaps he could make lunches for Neville to take to work...) He can clean again, but he doubts much dust and dirt have accumulated since yesterday. And he still isn’t going to watch muggle TV; fuck that.

So his mind inevitably drifts to a certain strong, handsome, irritatingly uninterested brunet, as Draco lathers shampoo into his hair. He finger-combs his platinum locks back, like he used to wear his hair when he was younger, and reaches for the body-soap dispenser. He runs the slick lotion up his arms and daydreams idly. He’s not exactly surprised when the first memory to hit him is the one of making Neville breakfast that first time and finding him fresh out of the shower. He was in just a towel then, after being in this very spot, naked and wet. He was still mostly naked and slightly damp when he bumped into Draco. He was chiseled—is chiseled, muscled, and defined, but not overly so: balanced and just right, exactly how Draco would like him. Draco closes his eyes as his fingers stray down his chest, while he pictures Neville’s taut stomach, with that light trail of brown hair, leading downwards below the towel. And then Draco pictures what’s under the towel, too, because now he knows—he knows exactly what Neville’s large, red cock looks like, hard and ready to go. The pretense of washing up is forgotten as Draco’s fingers descend through his own blond curls.

What could’ve happened, Draco wonders, if he hadn’t made breakfast? If he’d waited, instead, and gone for an early shower. Could he have walked in on Neville, gloriously bare and under the heavy spray of water, soaping himself up like Draco’s doing? Perhaps Neville would be leisurely massaging his scalp with a blissful expression, or perhaps he’d be running his calloused fingers over his hardening nipples, or perhaps he’d have his hands wrapped around his full cock, pumping away in the throes of ecstasy.

Maybe Draco could’ve opened the door quietly enough, and perhaps he could’ve slipped inside undetected. Or perhaps Neville would see him, and flash Draco a charming, wide smile, dimples showing. He’d hold out a hand, and invite Draco to join him, and Draco would scoff. Draco would say he’s too good for a Gryffindor, and he’d make a fuss, and Neville would growl that Draco belongs to him and has no choice, and Draco would pretend to be flustered, but he’d eagerly strip, and he’d crawl into the shower with his master and set to touching everything he wanted. He’d feel up Neville’s chest, down his arms, around his strong shoulders, and into his soaked-down hair. They’d share a languid kiss, and Draco would tease—he’d be stubborn about opening his lips, and then Neville would plow his way in, thigh between Draco’s legs...

Draco groans in the moment and purposely fingers his collar, tight and thick around his neck. He can’t take it off, even in the shower, and it reminds him of Neville even more, of the fact that Neville owns him. He drops his hand to lean against the shower tile, dipping forward under the spray. His other hand pumps his dick furiously, lubed up with soap and more eager than he should be. He wonders what Neville would do: if he’d be kind and gentle, or rough and brutal. Perhaps he’d be wonderful at first, and hold Draco tenderly under the water, and they’d kiss like teenagers experiencing the first tingling of attraction.

Or perhaps Draco would part their lips to pant something stupid about filthy blood traitors, and Neville would slam him up against the wall. He’d wrap his arms around Neville’s shoulders for support, and Neville would kiss him fiercely, devouring his mouth, and their slick chests would slide together, trapping the water between them. Their hard cocks would rub between their stomachs, and Draco would hardly be able to breathe, be able to think. He can hardly think right now. He’s heady and moaning, and thankful—hopeful—that Neville’s at work.

The Neville in his daydream wouldn’t go to work. He’d stay with Draco all day, and he’d say he’s so grateful to have bought someone like Draco, and he’d never want anyone else. He’d say he’d never give Draco back, because he loves Draco so much, and he’s going to treat Draco right, and make him feel good, and make him happy. But he’d be fierce about it too, and he’d pull Draco’s legs up around his waist and crush Draco into the cold wall. He’d prepare Draco with just enough care for him not to bleed, but it would still sting—Draco would still feel it, feel Neville all around him, inside him, and Neville would touch his cock and make him beg for more and make him whimper Neville’s name...

Draco’s orgasm hits him like a train; he screams and shoots all over his hand, riding it out and seeing stars. Neville’s smiling face is clear in his unclear mind, and he nearly tumbles forward into the tile.

It takes a moment to come down again. He’s breathing very heavily and slumping forward. Frozen solid, under the boiling spray. After a minute, he moves his hand under the water, washing it off, and gathers more soap.

Another moment and the gravity of what he just did hits him; he just jerked off to the thought of Neville Longbottom. His head re-clears-up slowly, and he uses twice as much soap as he normally would to clean himself everywhere. This is getting ridiculous.

He wants Neville, for whatever outrageous reasons, and is tired of hearing no.


	8. Chapter 8

Draco pops the first button of his dress shirt open and pauses. If he undoes another button, will that be too obvious? He doesn’t need another lecture. In the end, he opts for just one, exposing his pale collarbone and dark collar, and just a hint at his chest. Then he picks up the plate full of egg sandwiches sliced neatly in half and exits the kitchen.

Draco doesn’t like leaving the house. Even if it’s just the backyard, which is fenced in and enchanted to look like a greenhouse, with a large, glass ceiling, it makes him uncomfortable. The fence is too high to see over, and he’s sure that no one can see him. But it still feels like outside, and it makes him wary and skittish. He’s not entirely sure if that’s from Azkaban or from surviving the war, where enemies lurked around every corner.

Neville’s outside, and that sort of helps. He’s kneeling in the right corner behind a thick mat of bushes, wearing gloves and digging a trowel into a line of upturned dirt. Draco walks over to him and sits down on the grass, offering Neville the tray. “Sandwich?”

Neville drops his trowel when he glances sideways. His eyes roam casually up and down Draco’s form, and Draco straightens his posture under the scrutiny, his chest tightening. He’s dressed today in proper-fitting grey dress trousers and a green button-up. Neville’s in a blue sweatervest over a striped shirt with brown trousers. He pulls off his gloves and says, “You look good,” very neutrally. But Draco preens under the compliment anyway, smirking. “...I’m sorry you couldn’t come shopping with me, but obviously it wouldn’t be a good idea for you to be seen in public not... well, you know. I’d just have to treat you a lot worse and I’m not comfortable with that.”

Draco nods. As much as he finds the idea of being Neville’s servant to be surprisingly not horrible, he has no desire for anyone else to witness his odd comfort. “These are fine.” They’re more than fine, actually—Neville did a very good job and bought him a surprising amount of suitable clothes to fill his wardrobe with. He isn’t going to say that out loud, though. They’re not there yet.

Grinning a little, (probably because he knows that Draco’s ‘fine’ means ‘wonderful, thank you,’) Neville drops his gardening gloves in the grass. Then he reaches for a sandwich and chirps, “Thank you.” He sits back and takes a bite, and Draco tries not to stare at the way his adam’s apple bobs up and down, or the way his hands are hardened from garden work. Draco had no idea of it in school, like most things about Neville, but Neville apparently has quite the green thumb. He spends a lot of his spare time in the backyard and knows every property of every plant inside the makeshift greenhouse like the back of his hand. Draco doesn’t recognize any of it; Herbology was never his strong suit. (Although Potions was, and if he could make Potions again, this would be an incredibly helpful menagerie of ingredients.)

After a few bites, Neville says, “It’s good,” and Draco preens some more.

When he’s satisfied with Neville’s satisfaction, he takes his own piece and starts eating too. He shifts a bit closer and puts the tray down on his other side, so there’re only a few centimeters between them, and they eat in casual silence. When Neville reaches over him for a second slice, Draco picks up the slightly sweaty, musky scent of Neville, over the other myriad of earthy fragrances in the yard. Neville smells distinctly masculine and like someone who’s been working hard all day. Draco inhales perhaps a bit too noticeably and frowns when Neville’s hand retreats with a sandwich, body back to a reasonable distance.

Neville shifts back, stretching out. A proper break, then. Draco tries not to stare and instead glances at the row of dirt. It looks empty enough right now. He drawls in an attempt to sound interested, “What are you planting?”

“Suoiciled Seirrebwarts,” Neville says around his food. Draco nods like he’s heard of that before and tries to look impressed. Evidently, his lies aren’t as good as they once were though, because Neville grins and says, “You have no idea what that is.”

Only because he doesn’t want to lie to someone who technically owns him, Draco admits somewhat haughtily, “No. I don’t do garden work.”

Neville’s grin grows. “That’s alright; I wouldn’t expect you to. It’s a very rare wizarding species, anyway. They’re related to strawberries.”

Draco’s always liked strawberries. His mother used to decorate all his cakes with them, and he received many cakes as a boy. They sound better than suoci... whatever, anyway. “Do you have any of those?”

“Strawberries?”

“Yes.”

Neville chews his latest bite and nods, looking around. Then he gestures vaguely behind himself at the foot of a row of bushes. For some reason, Draco expects a bright wall of green and red that he somehow missed on his way in. Instead, he finds a small patch of what looks like bushy weeds, but has one or two tiny, bright red triangles sticking out. “Just the small, muggle garden variety,” Neville says. “An accident, really, but I figured I’d sort of let them grow free.”

They’re just out of arm’s reach for Draco, just within for Neville. Draco stares at them and wonders, “Do they taste alright?” He neglects to add that he’d like to find out, although the curiosity in his voice may have betrayed that.

Neville nods again and reaches backwards to pluck a small, particularly-ripe-looking strawberry off the plant. It looks longer and thinner than the commercial strawberries Draco’s used to, but the vibrant colour still promises delight. Neville pulls back and holds it out to Draco.

Draco’s actions are an odd mix of unintentional and sneaky. Without thinking beforehand, and while thinking ‘brilliant!’ during, he bends down to carefully lick the strawberry out of Neville’s fingers. He’s sure to swipe his tongue over as much skin as possible. He takes a minute longer than he needs to straighten back out, and he makes a show of licking the stray juice off his lips, as sensually as he can manage. Then he purrs, “Mm, it’s good.”

Neville retracts his hand slowly, cheeks a little flushed. He looks puzzled and torn. He opens his mouth to say... something.

But Draco’s afraid of what that might be, so instead quickly begs, “Can I have another?” And he bites his lip and tries to look as alluring as possible.

Neville clearly struggles with himself.

In the end, he picks another strawberry and holds it out again, this time higher. Draco tries to smile instead of smirk and eats it the same way. He lets his eyes flutter closed and savours the flavour. He sucks on Neville’s fingertips as much as he thinks he can get away with. When the strawberry’s gone, he grabs Neville’s hand before it can retreat, and he kisses Neville’s palm appreciatively. He drawls, “You’re a good gardener,” and flicks his grey eyes up. They’re burning.

Neville’s slightly pink and says, tellingly huskily, “Thanks.”

Draco doesn’t let go of Neville’s hand as he leans in the short distance to press their lips together. He doesn’t usually act so desperately, but Neville’s being stubborn. Neville’s frozen in place. Draco pushes into Neville’s warm mouth and snakes a hand around his head, massaging his scalp through his brown hair and holding him in. Neville doesn’t kiss back at first.

Then Draco presses their chests together, moaning wantonly, and Neville’s tongue slips into his mouth. Draco happily kisses back, clinging to Neville and pleading for more. He can taste his own sandwiches in Neville’s mouth. Neville tastes fresh, and smells earthy, and is overall intoxicating. Draco runs his other hand up and down Neville’s back. Neville has the perfect shoulders. Broad, and strong. He kisses fiercely. Draco can feel the curve of his spine, bent just right. His hands cup Draco, like Draco’s something small and delicate that might disappear if he clutches too hard.

Once upon a time, in Azkaban, Draco missed gentle sex. Right now, they’re in the garden, and Neville makes him feel safe, and he wants Neville to fuck him into the dirt. He slides his hand down Neville’s back and around the front, playing with the blue fabric across Neville’s back.

Neville pulls back enough to mumble, “What are you doing?”

Draco moans without thinking, “I want you.” And he presses the whole of his hand into the bulge growing in Neville’s trousers, making Neville shiver. Begging is unbecoming of a Malfoy, but a Slytherin gets what a Slytherin wants, and Draco simpers, “Please let me touch your cock?” He squeezes his hand and Neville grunts.

“Fuck.”

“Yes,” Draco drawls, “Fuck me.” He kisses Neville hard and is met with equal vigor. There’s a grand victory parade in Draco’s head, setting off fireworks. He knew he wasn’t ugly—wasn’t that bad. And he is wanted. He’s winning.

Draco’s fingers slip below Neville’s hem as soon as the belt’s loose, but he’s careful not to part from Neville’s mouth. He doesn’t want to give time for protest, and besides, it’s too good. He shifts closer in the grass, up as close as he can get, hand trapped between them and sliding under layers of soft fabric. Neville’s hands are rough at his sides, touching him and holding him in. He holds Neville’s hair firm, soothing and tentative all at once, playing with Neville’s hair and tilting his head. His tongue duels with Neville’s, trying to taste everything. Neville fights him back. When Neville’s fingers brush Draco’s cheek and slip into his blond locks, he could melt. Neville holds just as tightly, and they make out like the horny teenagers they could’ve been before. Draco can’t help but think of all the time he wasted—why didn’t anyone ever tell him Neville was a fantastic kisser? For someone who used to be a bumbling idiot, he’s a brilliant bout of sureness and skill.

When Draco’s fingertips close around Neville’s cock, he can feel the quick exhale of breath against his cheek. He tries not to smirk but can’t help it. He fists Neville slowly, afraid if he moves too fast, he’ll scare everything off. Neville feels just as big in his hand as he did in Draco’s mouth, long and thick. And already hard, pulsing. Draco twists his hand so he can get his thumb at the end to play with Neville’s tip, and he press into the wet slit. He can feel the dark hair tickling the side of his hand when he slides down and the coarse veins below his palm. His fingers run gently up and down the length, thumb continuing to swirl around the head, and Neville breaks the kiss to hiss into him. Draco gets a huge swell of satisfaction at the thoroughly aroused look on Neville’s face.

But of course Neville has to ruin it by muttering, “You shouldn’t be doing this.”

Draco tries not to let his face fall and says firmly, “I want to.”

“No, you don’t.”

Draco practically snaps, “Don’t tell me what I want,” and then regrets it. Neville doesn’t look mad, though. Just confused and turned on. Draco takes his hand off Neville’s dick long enough to lick his palm, hard and deliberately erotic, right in front of Neville’s face. Then he drops his hand back to Neville’s trousers and resumes fisting Neville with added lubrication. Neville groans as soon as Draco’s hand is back, and Draco repeats throatily, “I want you.”

He kisses the side of Neville’s lips, wanting Neville to do the rest. He gets in about three more pecks before Neville suddenly lunges at him, claiming his mouth again. Draco almost squeaks and opens his mouth instantly, and Neville dives in. Neville kisses him with such force that Draco’s temporarily too distracted to breathe right; he’s dizzy and gasping. Neville devours his mouth and sucks on his tongue and scrapes him with teeth, and when Draco has to pull back to breathe, still stroking Neville’s hard dick, Neville kisses and nibbles him all over his face and jaw. When a hand loops around his waist, Draco arches up into Neville. Neville pulls him in and captures his lips again and again, so hard it knocks him over.

Draco’s back hits the soft grass with a slight thumping sound, and Neville’s immediately on top of him—Draco’s one hand stays in Neville’s hair. The other returns to Neville’s cock, as soon as Neville’s pressing into him again. Neville straddles Draco’s hips and grounds him into the dirt, kissing him everywhere. Draco’s hand furiously pumps Neville’s cock of its own accord. His hips are bucking up sporadically—when did that start? He’s rutting into Neville like an animal. It’s almost difficult. Their chests are glued together, and Neville’s full weight traps him down. Neville plays with his hair and slips a hand under his shirt, sliding up his stomach and hiking up the fabric. Draco gasps into Neville’s mouth. Then he whimpers when that hand retreats. Neville grunts suddenly, tearing his mouth away, and rests his forehead on Draco’s. His face scrunches up and he grits his teeth. Draco’s eyes are half-lidded slits, but he forces his heavy lids high so he can see this.

Draco wants to see Neville’s face when he comes. He’s hard as a rock and jerks suddenly, thrusting brutally and shooting his load all over Draco’s hand, all up between them and onto their shirts. Draco keeps stroking. He keeps panting, luxuriating in how stiff Neville is, just for Draco. He doesn’t stop until Neville’s completely done, and then Draco keeps his hand still to feel that warm flesh soften in his palm. Neville kisses him softly, and Draco’s own orgasm rips through his own body, less intense but still wonderful. He comes in his trousers with a hoarse cry. His eyes flutter closed and he fists his hand in Neville’s hair.

Then he collapses limply, Neville already spent atop him.

For a few minutes, neither of them move.

Neville’s head is over his shoulder, so Draco can’t see his expression clearly. Draco waits for his own head to come back down to reality before he really looks, twisting to try and see. Neville grumbles blankly, “You didn’t have to do that.”

Draco feels an automatic sinking feeling, which isn’t at all welcome in his otherwise blissful state. Fucking Gryffindors. Do they have to ruin everything with a conscience? Draco tries to restrain his irritation as he drawls, “I know. ...I wanted to.”

Neville snorts.

Draco rolls his eyes. Neville’s trousers are still open between them, their clothes are still sticky, and Draco still has his hand across Neville’s shoulders. He says through grit teeth, “I did.”

Neville pulls back enough to properly look at Draco, propped up with his arms to either side of Draco’s shoulders. His cheeks are still a little flushed, and his lips are slightly red from being bitten, and his hair is a mess from being grabbed. He looks ravished and gorgeous, and it makes Draco’s stomach twist. He’s trying to be angry, but it’s difficult. Neville studies him quietly; Draco looks defiant.

Neville bends slowly down to kiss him softly, and when he sits up again, Draco tries to follow the movement, to keep their lips together, but isn’t fast enough. Neville settles a few centimeters apart from Draco and tucks himself back into his trousers. He pulls out his wand and flicks a cleaning spell, before flicking one at Draco. A tingling sensation rushes over Draco’s body, and his boxers dry and his shirt rights itself. Neville pats his wrinkled clothes back into place, straightening back up to his feet.

He says, “Thanks for the sandwiches,” and it sounds oddly genuine.

Then he turns and walks back to the house, leaving the trowel and gloves where he left them.

Draco stays collapsed in the grass and glares up at the glass sky.

That... didn’t go quite as planned. It started good. Very good. But it could’ve ended much, much better, and Draco’s patience is running thin. He’s tired of hitting the same roadblocks; he wants to mow them all down in one fell swoop and never hear them again. Guilt. What a stupid concept.

He can still feel the last kiss on his lips, though. Draco absently raises a finger to them.

Draco sighs. He’ll just have to step things up.


	9. Chapter 9

Draco has dinner on the stove, turned off and in a metal pot that should keep it warm. Pasta can always be reheated, he thinks. Hopefully, Neville agrees. Draco thinks he’s probably safe; Neville hasn’t turned out to be a picky eater. (Or a picky anything, really.) Which is good. Because he intends for Neville to not get fed until much, much later.

He’s got the apron ready for that. It’s folded neatly on the counter. It’s a plain old thing he found in the closet, but on him, with no other clothes on to compete, he’s confident he can pull it off.

Now he’s in front of the door, waiting to pull another look off. He leans against the hallway closet while he waits—Neville should be home any minute, but he’s never exactly on the dot. Draco doesn’t know how long he’ll be waiting but is perfectly content to do so. It’ll be worth it, he tells himself. This will change things for sure.

If Draco leans over a bit, he can see the clock on the stove from where he’s sitting in the hallway. It’s about fourteen minutes later when he hears footsteps coming up the stairs, and he instantly straightens up and scrambles into position. When the key clicks in the lock and the door finally swings open, Draco’s ready.

Neville closes and locks the door behind himself, turns around whilst pulling off his robe, and takes about one step before looking down.

Then he sees Draco and nearly falls over. He drops his robe.

Draco’s sitting on his legs, fists balled up like paws on the floor. He’s essentially on his hands and knees, ready to crawl. He’s completely naked except for his collar, and he’s holding his leash in his mouth.

He went in his box to get it—the one he came with. He hopes Neville won’t be angry. Neville doesn’t look angry. Just shocked.

Draco crawls forward with the sensual grace of a practiced lover. (Or a prisoner that spent a good chunk of time forced to do this.) He makes sure to stretch every muscle and wiggle his ass as he moves, sticking it up a little higher than necessary. The house is a cool, the linoleum floor cold, but it’s worth it. He reaches Neville’s legs and nuzzles the side of his face into Neville’s trousers, making soft mewling noises. When Neville still doesn’t do anything, Draco sits up on his knees like a cat on its hind legs, still only reaching Neville’s crotch. The leash is folded in his mouth, tasting rubbery and sharp, and he whimpers around it. He paws at Neville’s legs, begging.

Neville breathes, “Merlin,” and stares.

Draco sits back down on his ass and bats his lashes suggestively. He tilts his head up, trying to offer the leash. He keeps his hands fisted in his lap. His legs are slightly spread; Neville can see his bare cock, pink and not completely limp. The concept is hot even to Draco. (Pet play is something he probably could’ve gotten behind even before the war; he can make it about being _pampered_ , and of course he likes that.) The anticipation thrums in his veins. He’s itching to be touched and keeps mewling. When too much time passes, he starts nuzzling at Neville’s knees again, rubbing his cheek against the rough denim. He wants to scream ‘touch me!’

Finally, Neville breaks. He reaches down and tugs the leash gently out of Draco’s mouth, and it unravels in his hand. Draco smiles appreciatively and makes a purring noise that sounds suspiciously like a moan. Then he tilts his head to the side, looking down, to better expose his collar.

Another moment brimming in hesitation follows, before Neville bends down to clip the leash onto his collar. It’s black and leathery, and when it’s on, Draco has to force himself not to smirk in satisfaction. He glances back up at Neville, trying to look simultaneously grateful and naughty. Neville frowns and quickly walks around him. The leash tugs, and Draco follows. He crawls after Neville into the living room, thankful when his palms and knees reach the soft carpet. Neville walks him over to the couch and falls heavily down into it. Draco hesitates next to the coffee table, waiting nimbly on the floor.

Neville looks over at Draco and rolls his eyes. Then he tugs the leash again, wrapping it around his hand, shortening it, and forcing Draco to hop up onto the couch. Draco climbs on. As soon as he’s up, he turns into the back of the couch and falls down, onto his side, arms and legs curled up. He rests his head on Neville’s thigh and bats playfully at the hem of Neville’s button-up, pulled out of his dark jeans. With a contended sigh, Draco tries to look imploring.

Neville pauses before dropping the hand not holding the leash to Draco’s forehead. He lightly brushes back Draco’s bangs. Draco grins immediately, and he has to force himself to keep his eyes open. Neville pets him gently. With a strange irritation in his deep voice, Neville mutters, “Maybe I should just sleep with you to make you sleep easier.”

Draco wants to be slept with because he’s gorgeous and wanted, but at this point, he’ll take anything. Draco will teach Neville how lucky he is later; right now something just needs to happen. It’s too long, too ridiculous, and Draco knows darn well it’ll be easier to manipulate the situation once he’s in his master’s bed. So he says faux-sweetly, “Yes, you should.”

Neville frowns, which bothers Draco more than he cares to admit. “And that would make you feel better.”

“That would make me feel better,” Draco repeats. Then he hurriedly admits to save face: “I’d feel safe, and you’d see how useful I am...”

“You’re already useful,” Neville says, which makes Draco quirk an eyebrow. “You make me sandwiches, and you’re very entertaining.”

Draco wrinkles his nose. “I’m what?”

“You’re entertaining. ...I was still chuckling to myself at work today over your reaction to the toaster, and even though I know you don’t give a shit about my garden, it’s nice that you pretend. And when you’re not being a complete bitch, you’re sort of nice to converse with.”

Draco’s cheeks are a little red, and he doesn’t know what to say at first. Maybe ‘muggle technology is stupid,’ or ‘I’m not a bitch.’ But instead he says, “Your garden would be very useful if I could still make potions.”

Neville frowns again and says, “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” Draco sniffs. “I deserve it.” Or rather, the Ministry (and probably Neville) thinks so.

Neville shrugs. His fingers are still lightly brushing Draco’s forehead, and he mumbles, “You won’t be trapped here forever. Your parole will end eventually, and you’ll get your wand and rights back.”

“Eventually,” Draco grumbles, knowing full well that his wand, should he ever get it back, will come with a wealth of restrictions. Potions ingredients will probably be similarly off limits, unless he’s brewing something less dangerous than a simple sleeping draught. But he doesn’t want to think about that right now. Or maybe ever. He isn’t naïve; he saw his father come out of Azkaban once, even if it was only temporary. The world is a cruel place, and he can’t escape it now. He doesn’t want to think about being thrown to the streets with not a knut to his name, unemployable and possession-less and broken.

He sniffs childishly, “I don’t want to leave.”

Neville grins indulgently and says, “I’m flattered.” But his hazel eyes say he doesn’t believe it. He has a bit of stubble on his chin today, from rushing out the door too fast when Draco accidentally lingered in the shower too long. Just a little bit, but it looks oddly good on him. Makes him look more rugged. Draco forgets his role for a moment and reaches his fingers up to touch Neville’s cheek. He brushes across the short, coarse hairs along Neville’s jaw and thumbs Neville’s chin. Neville doesn’t move under his caresses, just grunts, “Sorry, I didn’t have time to shave.”

Why he’s apologizing, Draco has no idea. Draco stops himself before saying he likes it. Draco doesn’t apologize for his too-long shower, either. He settles on, “I could wake you up for work, if you like.”

Neville grins and moves the hand petting Draco’s hair to cup his cheek. “So you want to be my chef, my maid, my dog, and my alarm clock?”

“And your cat, and your sex toy,” Draco purrs. He latches on to his original impure intentions and tries not to be irritated that Neville ever changed the subject in the first place. Really, Neville shouldn’t be thinking of anything other than sex, with a naked Draco sprawled out in his lap.

Neville’s cheeks are slightly red, and he mutters, “I’ll be your protector anyway. I’m serious; I’m not going to send you back to prison.”

“Not after I’m done with you, anyway.”

Neville rolls his eyes. “I think I really am going to have to sleep with you, just to shut you up.”

Immediately offended again, Draco sneers, “Poor you.”

Neville chuckles, and the movement ripples down to his legs, vibrating against Draco’s cheek. Draco uses the distraction to turn his head slightly and nuzzle into Neville’s crotch. Neville freezes, and Draco parts his lips to mouth at the fabric that bulges up to meet him. That shows, at least, that Neville is attracted to him, and Draco logs that away with stubborn satisfaction.

He mewls into the rough denim, “If I’m that awful to look at, you can turn me around and pretend I’m someone else. I’ll still make it good for you; you’ll still be happy you bought me...”

He’s expecting more reassurances, knowing darn well that no one would want to pretend he’s anyone else, but gets a fist in his hair.

Neville jerks his head up so fast it’s almost painful, but he catches the quick, “Sorry,” whispered against his lips before they’re covered in Neville’s. Neville kisses him hard, holding Draco’s head in place and shoving his tongue inside. Draco opens his mouth obediently and scrambles to shift his body into place. Neville’s other arm loops around his waist and helps him, tugging him easily into Neville’s lap. Draco straddles Neville’s legs and puts all of his energy into their kiss, his hands clutching at Neville’s shoulders. He can feel the slight stubble prickling his chin. The leash trails limply down his spine, cold where it touches his skin and bouncing slightly as Draco adjusts himself to keep up with Neville. Neville kisses with so much passion that Draco completely loses himself. This started off as his plan. But now he’s just along for the ride...

When Neville pulls back, barely a centimeter away, he mutters, “Don’t walk around naked.” Draco can feel the words on his wet lips; Neville’s nose is still pressed into the side of his own. Draco isn’t sure who’s breathing heavier. “For Merlin’s sake, you didn’t even let me get my shoes off.”

“I can take your shoes off,” Draco smirks, rubbing himself shameless against Neville’s stomach. His confidence is coming back to him with the way Neville looks at him and the way Neville holds onto his hips. He tilts his head up and leans closer to whisper in Neville’s ear, “I can take everything off.” He licks the shell lightly.

Neville shivers against him and grunts, “You must really think I’m helpless.” Then he gently grabs Draco’s waist in either hand and lifts Draco easily off his lap, re-depositing him on the couch. Draco allows himself to be manhandled but pouts over it. Neville stretches out his legs without looking and kicks off his shoes. “So, how do you want to do this?”

Then he glances at Draco, who can’t help but glare. Smiling fondly, Neville leans over to bestow a chaste kiss on him. Draco drawls, “However you want.” He resists (with great effort) the urge to call Neville ungrateful. Then he remembers what he’s supposed to be doing, and licks his lips languidly. Neville tastes sort of sweet today—perhaps he had a treat at work. ...Although Aurors probably don’t stop for ice cream during hunts, or whatever it is they do. Draco hasn’t asked much. There wasn’t anything sugary in the lunch he packed for Neville—spaghetti with a side-salad.

Neville raises an eyebrow and says calmly, “You said you wanted to do this.”

“I do,” Draco nods. He doesn’t have to admit his reasons right now, but he’s half-hard and _Merlin, he wants to do this._

Neville nods and says, “Tell me if at any point you change your mind.” Then he leans in to seal their lips again, and Draco’s grumbles are swallowed up. Neville’s fingers reach around his neck to unhook the leash, and he gathers it up and tosses it off. His fingers play at the collar on Draco’s neck, and he parts to breathe, “You didn’t leave me anything to do.”

Draco still doesn’t say ‘sorry,’ but insists instead, “’Didn’t want to waste time.” Although they’ve wasted plenty of time just talking, and it’s frustrating, even if talking to Neville does feel inexplicably right and normal. There’s the other reason too, of course, that he wants to keep Neville interested, wants to keep him enticed. Draco doesn’t want Neville to walk away. Not again.

And he wants to see Neville naked, and if he could put Neville on a leash, he might. Neville would be a dog though, not a cat, the sort that would knock Draco over easily. The thought makes him moan, and he wants to tug at Neville’s shirt.

He doesn’t want to be insolent though, not when he’s doing so well. So he just fingers the buttons pointedly, while Neville’s tongue makes short work of his brain. He melts under Neville’s warm mouth, dives in, the sensation sending fog to his head and blood to his groin. He shuffles closer and arches into Neville, rubbing his pebbled nipples into Neville’s shirt and throwing his leg over Neville’s. Neville grabs him, and they kiss and kiss.

Draco practically growls that he wants more. This is good, so good, but he needs everything, and loses it. He starts undoing Neville’s buttons with vigor and isn’t stopped. He gets to the third button when Neville pushes him down into the couch, falling with him. It’s like it was in the garden, but on soft cushions instead of hard dirt and grass. It’s cleaner, and more Malfoy, and Draco smirks at his progress. Neville helps Draco with the last couple buttons, fiddling between them without parting their lips. Neville’s leaning over between Draco’s legs, and Draco’s knees are hiked up on either side of Neville. He’s completely bare and completely exposed. ...And somehow he isn’t the least bit uncomfortable. He feels safe.

Maybe it isn’t so bad Neville ran so much, after all. This is nothing like Azkaban was, and nothing like anything before. It’s warmer, and better, and he feels hot even though the room is cold. When Neville’s shirt is completely undone, Draco slides his hands up Neville’s smooth, taut stomach, moaning at the hard muscles he finds. He parts their lips so he can look down and take it all in. Neville sits up to pull his shirt off his shoulders, and Draco watches the thin material slide over his skin, teasing and erotic. Neville probably doesn’t know it, but he looks like a club dancer, stripping just for Draco. He isn’t any more graceful than he used to be, but he isn’t clumsy anymore, either. He’s confident and strong, and Draco feels all over his chest.

Neville touches Draco everywhere right back. Draco’s thinner, paler, all sharper angles and less toned, but the look in Neville’s eyes says he doesn’t mind one bit. His hands slide to Draco’s nipples and play with them, making Draco throw his head back and gasp. Neville pinches them both at the same time, tugging gently and rubbing around them in smooth circles. Draco bites back a moan and arches into the touch, cock hardening against Neville’s crotch. When Neville lets go and slides his hands back up Draco’s shoulders to hold his cheeks, his neck, his hair, Draco slips his to Neville’s belt. He’s half-lidded and lust-clouded and fiddles with the loop. He gets it out, and as he pulls out Neville’s belt, the sound of rushing leather-on-denim makes him shiver in anticipation.

He wants Neville to tie his hands up with the belt, or maybe he wants to tie Neville up. He wants to do more, but he can do that all next time. There’ll be a next time. Draco tosses the belt carelessly across the room and runs his fingers along the hem of Neville’s trousers.

Neville’s kissing his cheek and mutters into his ear, “You’re sure?”

Draco whines, “Stop asking me that,” and tries to pretend he didn’t hear it.

He’s too needy to tease. He unzips Neville’s fly, tugs down his jeans, and peels down his boxers. As soon as Neville’s cock is freed, it bursts out, jumping into Draco’s hands and hard as a rock. Draco gives it a little squeeze and groans almost as loudly as Neville does. He doesn’t know what it is about Neville’s cock, but he just wants to jump on it, or wrap his lips around it, or at least touch it, whenever he can. He strokes Neville desperately as he spreads his legs wider, shifting to rest his ankles atop Neville’s bared back. He presses his own naked dick up into Neville’s, wanting more friction and wanting Neville to get it. When Neville just keeps thrusting into his hand, Draco pants, “N... Neville... fuck me...”

Neville’s long fingers trail sensually down his body as Neville scrapes his teeth along the shell of Draco’s ear, and he hisses, “I’m going to.”

Draco arches wildly upwards when Neville’s fingers wrap around his cock. He hasn’t had anything other than his own hand in ages, and Neville’s touch is more than welcome. He whimpers loudly when Neville’s hand trails down the shaft to cup his balls then dive underneath him. Neville’s index finger presses up between his cheeks, finding his hole easily and tracing it teasingly. The blunt tip runs around his puckered hole, and Draco stops thrusting upwards in order to relax. He needs to relax. He wills himself to as Neville’s finger tenderly rubs at him. He doesn’t want this to hurt.

But the next minute, he just wants it to happen and doesn’t care. He’s growling, “Just do it,” before he means to, sounding needy and wanton. Neville chuckles next to him, and the hand still in Draco’s hair leaves. Draco whines at the loss, even though he’s sure it’s for a good cause. He hears fabric rustling and isn’t disappointed.

Neville’s next words are muffled, but Draco can guess what they are. As the tingling sensation rips through his nether regions, he wonders when the hell Neville Longbottom learned sex spells. Draco learned them in Hogwarts quickly, but he can’t imagine Neville being savvy enough to pick them up. But then, Neville’s gorgeous now, and an Auror, and he could probably pick up anyone he wanted. But that thought makes Draco’s stomach tighten—he doesn’t want to think about it. So he concentrates on the wet, stretching feeling in his channel. It feels like Neville got all the preparations in one—Draco’s begrudgingly impressed.

It feels like enough, and Draco’s impatient. He wants Neville inside him, right now, but Neville still starts with his fingers. The hovering tip presses into him lightly, breaching the hot ring of muscle and letting out the spelled lubricant. Draco grits his teeth automatically at the invasion, but it doesn’t hurt. Neville’s nails are blunt, and Draco’s stretched, and Neville’s finger climbs slowly in. Draco squeezes around it and tries to relax. It goes all the way to the knuckle without really hurting, but Draco keeps his teeth together.

Neville pulls back slightly to watch Draco’s face, and Draco hisses out, “I’m fine,” before Neville can ask. Neville nods, and another finger trails along Draco’s hole. He has a sharp intake of breath and lolls his head to the side. But he nods too, to say it’s okay.

It presses in lightly, and Draco grunts as it enters him. There’s a sort of sting as the two digits slip together, a sort of burn as they stretch his walls apart. But it’s wet enough to soothe it: to ease the way. Neville scissors him gently, and Draco shifts his eyes to watch Neville.

He roams Neville’s body again; the dark hair, the sharp hazel eyes, the small sprinkling of stubble, the broad shoulders, the hard muscles. Draco eyes Neville’s large cock, and his own twitches hungrily. When Neville’s fingers are both fully in him, Draco chances bucking upwards, rubbing their cocks together. Neville groans, and Draco gasps loudly. Neville’s third finger is quicker, and that’s good. Draco’s already dripping with precum, and he’s so, so ready.

When those wet digits pull out, Draco’s hands fly around Neville shoulders. Neville grins, and his face screws up in concentration as he holds himself and lines himself up with Draco’s entrance. Draco keeps his legs spread wide, his dick bouncing against his chest. Neville’s spongy head brushes his entrance, and Draco bites his lip. This is it.

He barely has time to digest that before Neville’s thrusting in. It’s shallow—the head pops inside, and Draco makes a keening noise and tries to relax. Neville drapes back over him, arms on either side.

His thumb strokes Draco’s cheek affectionately as he slowly slides himself in, and Draco’s muscles clench and protest. Neville’s much, much bigger than the fingers, and even though Draco’s stretched and wet, it isn’t enough to make it easy. It hurts, just a little, and it’s uncomfortable at first, and his walls spasm around the hard shaft. Neville’s careful, and slow, and pauses when Draco flinches. Draco has to nod for Neville to keep going, just as slow as before.

When Neville’s to the base, he pauses, and Draco groans and throws his head back.

Fuck, Neville’s big. Draco’s never felt so full before and has to take a minute to adjust his breathing. His eyes are fluttering beneath his lashes, and his fingers claw slightly at Neville’s back. He shifts a little and groans as it bounces Neville’s balls against his ass.

Neville bends down to kiss him, stubble tickling his chin again. It’s light. Neville rests his forehead against Draco’s. He mumbles, “Tell me when.”

Draco says, “When,” right away. Even though it isn’t entirely comfortable, he knows it’s going to be. It’s impossibly hot, and it’s an odd mix of feeling right and wrong. Neville still waits a minute before pulling out slightly, slipping down Draco’s channel. Draco whimpers immediately at the loss, until only the tip’s still inside.

Then Neville slams back in, and Draco moans. He clutches Neville harder and tilts his head for another kiss. He opens his lips and Neville follows suit, pulling out and thrusting back in. The third thrust comes harder, faster, and Draco’s cry is cut off by Neville’s mouth. Their tongues fight and Neville slams into him again, again, getting brutal, and slamming Draco’s ass into the couch, and sliding his lithe body up. His thighs tense around Neville’s sides, and then it happens—Neville hits that spot and Draco cries out—he arches wildly. He breaks the kiss to throw his head to the side and moan, and Neville hits that spot again, again. He aims everything into it, hitting it over and over, and Draco’s head is a hot, overflowing mess. He starts to see stars; it’s so good. It sets of every nerve ending, every cell in his body, and the heat crawls through his veins and the pleasure claws at his chest. His dick’s incredibly hard between them, sandwiched between their two bodies, and Draco thinks he might come just from the stimulation to his ass alone. Neville fucks him rough into the couch, like the animal Draco was supposed to be. Neville kisses the side of Draco’s face messily and growls, “You’re so tight.”

Draco counters, “You’re so—big,” and can barely form the words. His brain isn’t functioning. He finds Neville’s mouth again and resumes their kiss. They make out and they fuck and Draco moans and whines, arching up into Neville and fucking loving it. Sex was never this good, not even before the war, when he was young and exited and didn’t have a care in the world. Neville’s bigger, stronger, and _Draco wants him so much._ In between kisses, Draco gasps, “ _Neville_ ,” and tries to press his dick as tightly into Neville’s naked stomach as he can.

Neville, wonderful Neville, takes the hint, and his hand falls down Draco’s body, the pace never once slowing. He wraps his calloused fingers around Draco’s hard cock as he pounds into Draco’s ass relentlessly, and he starts fisting Draco in time with the movement. Draco practically screams and tries to thrust up into it—but he can’t. He’s skewered on Neville’s cock and goes where Neville pushes him, and he bounces up and down like a ragdoll and his cock slides in and out of Neville’s fingers, pumping him hard. Draco’s clutching so hard at Neville’s shoulders that he’s probably going to leave bruises, but at the moment, he can’t care. He needs it for support. He’s mindless and he holds on tight and he moans and he arches and he begs.

Neville thrusts and thrusts into that perfect spot, and then he hits it so hard that Draco shrieks, coming all over Neville’s hand. He parts their lips to shout, “ _Neville!_ ” and clutches harder, tighter, arching and on fire. He shoots out between them and his ass clenches tightly around Neville’s huge cock, and it’s so intense that Draco thinks he might pass out. His vision blurs. He doesn’t want to let go.

Neville’s hand stays on his slowly-flagging cock, sticky and still, as Neville continues to piston into Draco’s ass. A few more thrusts, and Neville follows, staying inside on a particularly brutal slam. Draco can feel Neville spasm inside him, exploding and coating his walls. He’s a panting mess, but he finds the energy to whimper and still won’t let go.

Neville doesn’t let go either until he’s completely spent, and then he collapses limply atop Draco, still buried to the hilt. His head rests on Draco’s shoulder, arms moving to wrap tightly around Draco’s body. He stays inside. He’s breathing very heavily, but Draco thinks he might be worse.

Draco can barely breathe, because his head is an empty mess, light and useless. His lips feel swollen, they’re both covered in sweat, and the smell of sex is heavy in the air.

Neville’s sort of heavy atop him, but also warm, and Draco doesn’t really want him to leave. They’re glued together with different juices, and Draco holds him down. Strangely, Draco’s never felt so comfortable.

Draco feels a disturbing sense of belonging, and that discovery sort of terrifies him.

He wanted to feel secure, of course. He wanted to feel like his position was locked, and this would guarantee his safety.

But he’s far more content than that, and he knows, despite his ravenous denial, that it’s for other reasons.

He feels warm, and good, and like everything will be alright, if only he can just have Neville.

Neville mutters, “Okay... maybe that was a good idea...” And he sounds just as content as Draco.


	10. Chapter 10

Draco made pancakes for dinner a few days ago, partially on a whim and partially to see if he could. Neville thanked him like always and ate them quite happily. So Draco figures he can cook whatever he wants for whatever meal. Which is good, because he’s picky. And selfish. He wants to eat what he wants to eat, and Neville seems wonderfully okay with that.

So today Draco’s making crepes, which is horribly boring and takes far too long. He has a mixture of berries in another pot on the stove, melting slowly together. Most of the ingredients he needs to cook Draco writes down on a list, and Neville shops for him once a week. So far, Neville has always bought everything Draco asks. The berries come from the garden though, which Draco took without permission.

A part of him knows he should’ve asked. But a part of him is thoroughly convinced he can get away with anything, and another part is mildly curious about testing the boundaries. They’re simply muggle berries, anyway—blueberries and raspberries and a few small strawberries. All things he knows and is confident are safe. Every once in a while, he stirs the pot absently while he waits for the batter of the crepes to become somewhat solid.

He makes them paper-thin and neatly-shaped. When he hears the door open behind him, he already has several on a plate off to the side, and only enough batter for one or two more left. He slips the one currently in the pan atop his plated pile, pouring the rest of the batter into the pan as Neville says, “Hello,” in the background.

Draco drawls, “Hello,” without looking. “I’m almost done—go sit in the dining room.” Or living room, to be more accurate. But Draco’s used to more rooms than that, and old vocal habits die hard. He hears Neville’s shoes kick off against the tile and then footsteps cross the hall. Draco smirks to himself. He just ordered his master around and got away with it. He already knows he can do that often, but it’s still nice every time he gets proof. To be perfectly truthful, he hasn’t really felt like a slave since Dawlish first dropped him off. He’ll always know, though, or at least will for the rest of his sentence, and it’s the little things like this that make it easier.

Draco pours the pot of mixed berries into a large bowl whilst wishing Neville had better dishes. He doesn’t need fine china, but too many things in this kitchen are plastic. Draco stacks the crepes atop two empty plates and waits a few minutes before sliding the last one on top and turning the oven off. He places the mixing bowl next to the sink. He’ll do the dishes later—or he’ll hint pointedly enough for Neville to do them. Draco has to do them by hand, after all, and Neville can do it with a flick of his wand. Careful to balance everything, Draco takes the heavy plate and bowl into the living room. He sets it down on the table and goes back to the kitchen for cutlery.

Neville’s perfectly capable of serving himself, and will, if Draco’s not quick enough. But Neville doesn’t do it right, and Draco likes to hand him the proper-sized fork and butter knife and set out their plates correctly. He sits across from Neville at the plain wooden table and scoops a crepe onto his plate, since Neville has already done it.

“You’re supposed to roll them up,” Draco informs Neville, as Neville dumps a liberal amount of berries onto his and starts ripping it apart with his knife.

“Oh,” Neville grunts but keeps eating his way. Draco rolls his eyes and pointedly bites his tongue. Although his tolerance level has considerably lowered over the past little while, he decides that the next show of uncouthness he’ll speak up on.

Draco rolls his crepe up properly around his berries and slices it. When Neville remains quiet, (and oddly cold,) Draco asks, “How was your day?” Not because he particularly cares—the awkward silence is just slightly unnerving. (Often times Neville will walk into the kitchen when he’s cooking and say thank you, or set the table, or even stand too close behind Draco under the guise of testing soup.)

Here Neville sighs heavily and drops his fork. He leans back in his chair, and Draco frowns. “Irritating,” Neville grumbles. He glances at Draco, who raises an eyebrow questioningly. Then Neville makes a clicking sound with his tongue, and looks to the side, hesitating. “...I probably shouldn’t rant about this to you, but Hermione’s driving me nuts.”

Draco instantly sneers and snaps, “She’s not hitting on you?”

“What?” Neville laughs, and Draco’s stomach flips at returning a smile to Neville’s face. He’s got a bit of stubble on his chin again, now that he knows Draco likes it. “No, no, nothing like that. It’s about this program, actually.”

Draco frowns. He knows immediately what ‘this program’ means. His program. What that has to do with Granger, Draco has no idea. But he doesn’t like it. “What’s she got to do with it?”

“Nothing,” Neville shrugs. “But she’s protesting it like crazy. ‘Thinks it’s wrong to treat humans this way. I mean, I see her point and all, but her argument is just so flawed. She won’t even address the Azkaban overpopulation problem—what are we supposed to do about that? Build another Azkaban? She’s not even thinking about the Ministry’s fiscal problems—say what you want about it, but without this program, we’d be in _huge_ debt. ...I mean, I’m not saying basically giving a person to another like a slave is right, but the issue isn’t that simple...”

Draco, quite frankly, couldn’t care less about the national debt. He also doesn’t care about Azkaban, so long as he’s not in it. He sniffs haughtily, “Tell her to shut up. I’m a prisoner, and I think this program is brilliant.”

Grinning wryly, Neville says, “That’s the really fucked up part. She thinks she’s advocating for you—that you all want to go back to Azkaban.”

Draco snorts. “Well, then she’s an even bigger dumbass than I thought. This is the best thing that ever happened to me.” And then he blushes heavily at the admission and dons a scowl to try and cover it up. It’s not true, anyway: _Neville’s_ the best thing—the program just got him there. Draco tells himself he’s flushing out of anger. Yes, that’s it.

Neville probably sees right through him. Instead of calling him on it, Neville just grunts, “It’s S.P.E.W. all over again.” Then he goes back to eating his crepe, messy and all wrong.

Not wanting to embarrass himself further, Draco follows suit. A few bites in and Neville mumbles, “This is really delicious,” and he seems to be in an alright mood again. Draco smirks around his mouthful. He can make crepes like nobody’s business. (Among many other things.) “...How was your day?”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Neville raises an eyebrow at him, grinning. Draco keeps an apology on the tip of his tongue, just in case. Neville returns to eating though, so Draco swallows it with a mouthful of pastry-wrapped fruit.

“Alright. I picked some of your berries for dinner.”

“I noticed.”

Draco waits, again, to see if Neville will do anything. Neville doesn’t. This bolsters Draco’s garden-courage; that’s another ingredient he has ready access to. There’s a small part of him, too, that enjoys the permission for other reasons. The garden is, inarguably, one of Neville’s favourite things. And Draco has basically been invited in. It’s sort of like being invited to be a part of Neville, and it makes Draco glow inexplicably.

“What are you preening about now?” Neville laughs.

Draco turns his grin into a smirk and white-lies, “My superior cooking skills.”

“You know, I’m the envy of everyone at work now.” Neville scoops himself another crepe, while Draco tilts his head to the side, fork pausing. Neville slides the crepe around his gooey plate, coating it in purpling sauce. “The packed lunches you’ve been sending me with. There’re a lot of married guys in there—none of them get that sort of thing. They think I’m forcing you.” Here he looks at Draco.

Draco, rather liking the idea of people being jealous of him, (or his team, which Neville’s on, in this case,) smirks, “No, I’m just that amazing.”

“You’re completely amazing.”

Draco helps himself to seconds and neatly rolls up his crepe. He should’ve made whip cream to go with this. He logs that thought away for next time and pictures Neville at the Ministry, chatting with other Aurors. The thought makes him slightly jealous, although he’s not sure of what, specifically. He has memories of visiting his father at the Ministry that fill him with warm nostalgia, and then darker memories of awaiting trial. Freedom is something he doesn’t miss as much as he thought he would—branching out was never the Slytherin style. “Do you talk about me?” The thought dons on Draco somewhat slowly. It’s hard to remember that Neville’s friends with everyone Draco hates, because they’re only ever here together. The telephone rings, sometimes, but Draco never answers it. Neville hasn’t had anyone over yet, for which Draco’s grateful, and he rarely goes out.

“Sometimes,” Neville shrugs. “To be honest, not unless I have to. It’s not their business. ...But the program does come up a lot, and aside from a few older Aurors that never talk to us, I’m the only one in our group that’s in it.”

“What do you tell them?” Draco stares at Neville while Neville continues to eat, but he just gets another nonchalant shrug.

“Not much. That you’re fine, mostly. You’re not all... broken because of me, or whatever. Degraded. All the shit Hermione says, basically.”

“Like I was in Azkaban?” Draco scowls.

Neville looks up at him. “You don’t have to tell me; I’m on your side. ...Frankly I find it pretty insulting. She’s basically insinuating I’m worse than Azkaban.”

Draco says firmly, “You’re not.”

Neville snorts. “I figured. I’m sure there are plenty of Death Eaters still in Azkaban that wish they could make it into the program.”

Draco’s heart clenches. He looks back down at his plate and drops his knife. He swirls the piece he cut around in the sauce with his fork, suddenly missing part of his appetite. He might be glaring.

“What?”

But there’s nothing Neville can do about that, and Draco drawls quietly, “I wish my father was.”

A silence sets over the room. Draco’s the first to break it by forcing himself to eat another bite—just to give him something to do. Sulking won’t fix anything, but sulking is what he does. He doesn’t know how to not be upset about it, and he straightens his shoulders out, as if he’s recovering and it’s no big deal.

Neville’s hands are unmoving across the table. “...His parole hearing is in a few days, you know.” Draco’s head shoots up. “Just to decide how many years he should serve, and when the earliest date he can be released is. I’m sure you know the original trials weren’t as thorough as they should’ve been—there’s such a backlog, and they’re factoring in now how the Death Eaters behave in Azkaban. I haven’t heard any trouble about him, so hopefully it won’t be too long.”

Draco nods automatically. He didn’t know his father’s sentence hadn’t been set yet—he doesn’t know anything, really. He didn’t even know his own sentence until a short while ago—Death Eaters aren’t told anything. Draco’s hands fall back to the table. He wishes Neville could buy his father too. But there’s no way Neville could. Draco doesn’t think an Auror can have two Death Eaters, and it’d probably be too expensive, and there’s no way Lucius would qualify for this sort of program. Or any early parole. And Neville wouldn’t want to buy him, anyway. Draco knows that his family, relatively speaking, hardly did anything. But his father was a known Death Eater even before the war fully broke out, and he isn’t holding out any hope.

He glances down as a large, warm hand covers his own. Neville holds him gently and says, “I’ll speak at the hearing and do what I can.”

Draco stares at that hand, almost unable to believe it. He looks up at Neville, with a clenching heart and about-to-water eyes, and Neville looks back at him firmly.

“It’ll be okay,” Neville insists, and his thumb rubs Draco’s hand reassuringly.

Draco can’t imagine anyone speaking at his father’s hearing in their favour. He would’ve never asked Neville to, and he almost can’t believe that Neville will. He doesn’t want to break the dream by saying anything aloud—he wants the fantasy in his head that it really will be all okay. He breathes, “Thank you,” and hopes that Neville can see that he means it. He’s full of half-truths and ulterior intent, but he means this sincerely, with all his heart.

He could hug Neville, in this moment. Neville doesn’t let go of his hand until Draco returns to eating, slower than before.


	11. Chapter 11

Draco could (and, technically, should) go to bed. It’s ten o’clock, and while there’s no particular reason to self-impose a curfew, there’s also no reason to stay up. Other than waiting for Neville to get home, that is, although Merlin knows when that’ll be.

Neville owled him a note explaining that he’d be working late and not to wait up. Draco’s chosen to take that as a suggestion as opposed to an order. That was about three hours ago; Draco sent the owl back with a package of Greek salad.

Neville sent the owl back with another note reading, “Thank you.”

Draco sent the owl back with a rather raunchy proposal of what they could’ve been doing if Neville were home on time.

The owl didn’t come back after that.

Draco assumes he’s not in any trouble, because he rarely is. And he knows that if Neville were home and Draco whispered the same words in his ear, they’d be having quite a bit more fun than Draco currently is.

Now he’s curled up on the couch, staring at the black screen of the muggle television. He’s still not going to watch it, but it’s in the center of the far wall, and sort of the focal point of the room. He’s slumped over, lying on his side, still dressed in tight-fitting dark jeans and a light t-shirt. He’s using one of the armrests for a pillow, although it’s not nearly as comfortable as his bedroom pillow or Neville’s legs.

When he closes his eyes, he imagines Neville’s home, Draco’s lying in his lap, and he’s playing with Draco’s hair. Draco exhales slowly and shifts his legs. He doesn’t want to get too worked up—he might tire himself out early. ...Or maybe Neville would walk home right in the middle of Draco touching himself, sprawled out on the couch, and Neville would shed his robe and climb over Draco’s body in one, quick movement, and they’d grind together and...

Draco bites his lip and forces himself to sit up again. He needs to make Neville buy him some books or something. Apparently he’s incapable of being alone with his thoughts for five seconds. Maybe he’ll sweep the kitchen again, just for something to do.

Then the door opens in the background, and Draco has to physically restrain himself from jumping up and running over. He still has some semblance of pride, thank-you-very-much. Even if he does just sit here all day, craving Neville’s company. (It’s honestly not that different than how he was before the war—never doing much besides luxuriating about, only then in wealth instead of... this.)

“Hello,” Neville calls from the doorway, and Draco can hear him kicking off his shoes and hanging his robe.

Draco echoes, “Hello,” trying to stifle the yawn that follows.

Neville walks into the living room, and Draco stays on the couch, trying to look as lavish and awake as possible. When Neville walks to the couch, Draco doesn’t shift over; Neville has to squeeze in between him and the armrest. “You didn’t have to wait up for me.” He throws his arm casually over the back of the couch—essentially over Draco’s shoulders—as he settles down.

“I was bored,” Draco truthfully drawls. “And I wasn’t tired,” he lies, in a further attempt to save face. He moves his hand over to Neville’s lap and gently trails his hand up and down Neville’s thigh while they talk. “How was work?”

Neville’s grinning at him. But he kindly doesn’t mention Draco’s obvious yawn, or the way Draco’s head falls back against Neville’s arm. “Dull. Just a lot of paperwork to sort, really. Sooner or later, I’m going to have to demand a secretary.” Something tightens in Draco’s stomach, which he chooses to ignore. “Thanks for sending dinner, by the way. It was delicious.”

Draco considers saying, ‘thanks for the courtesy note,’ but instead goes with, “I know.”

Neville laughs at his arrogance and jokes, “You know, I’ve had you for such a short while, and you’re already basically my housewife.”

Not fast enough, Draco replaces the smile on his face with a scowl. He’s more than basically Neville’s housewife, he knows. He cooks, cleans, and puts out. And the worst part of that is he doesn’t really mind. Neville saying ‘I’ve had you’ makes his stomach glow. Sniffing anyway, Draco grumbles, “Househusband.”

Neville chuckles, “Sorry. You know what I meant. Just... thanks.”

Draco shrugs. He knows he has more to be thankful for but doesn’t mention it. His hand trails a bit further up Neville’s thigh, getting closer to the zipper. Anyway. He didn’t stay up like this just to talk. He shifts himself a little closer, so that his head falls to Neville’s shoulder, and he runs his finger along the stitching over Neville’s crotch.

Neville mumbles a little huskily, “I... uh... got your note.”

Draco smirks without looking up. He keeps his hands busy. “Hm, did you enjoy it?”

“...You’re lucky no one read that over my shoulder...”

“No, you’re unlucky,” Draco grins. “If just my cooking made them all jealous, imagine what my other ‘services’ would do...” He finally looks up at Neville, making it very, very obvious that he wants to be kissed.

Neville hesitates. But that small space is getting smaller every time. Draco knows he doesn’t have to do this. Neville knows Draco knows. But Draco’s had enough hardships—can’t he have a little fun?

Neville presses their lips together, and Draco’s lashes fly down instantly, lips splitting into a smile and parting. Neville’s warm, his face hard, and he presses just enough into Draco to force Draco’s body back a few centimeters. Draco runs one hand up Neville’s strong stomach to fist in his hair and hold Neville in. His uses his other hand to palm Neville through his trousers, which earns a hearty groan.

When Neville parts them, Draco doesn’t want to let him, and Draco switches to quicker, fast kisses all along Neville’s face. Neville smiles against him and mutters breathily, “I’m tired... we should go to bed.”

Draco freezes and pulls back enough to glare heatedly. “Neville, I’ve...” he cuts himself off. He was going to say, ‘I’ve been looking forward to this all day.’ But that sounds so needy and desperate. He struggles with himself for a less pathetic way to phrase it; perhaps something bitchier and more demanding. He must look confused, though, because Neville smiles indulgently and kisses his nose, making Draco grimace in irritation.

“I just meant let’s take this upstairs, not actually sleep yet.” Then he shifts and stands up off the couch, turning to hold out a hand for Draco. When Draco alternates between glaring and blinking, Neville adds laughingly, “Did you really think I’d opt for sleep after that note you sent me?”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Well, you are a Gryffindork, and you were never that smart even for one of them.” But he takes Neville’s hand begrudgingly, and Neville still helps him up, just with one eyebrow raised.

“And yet you’re going to make that Gryffindork fuck you,” Neville muses.

“Not ‘make,’” Draco sniffs, “’let.’”

“Of course.” Neville kisses him again, on the lips this time, and guides them over to the stairs. Draco follows, and right before the first step, he tentatively pushes Neville into the wall for another kiss. Neville pulls back enough to mumble, “Unless you want to fuck me, that is.”

Draco’s not sure what to make of that and wonders with knotted brows, “You want me to fuck you?” It feels odd with the technical status of their relationship. Not that Neville ever seems to look at things like that. Draco kisses Neville again.

Neville grabs him by the waist and lifts him one stair up. “No, I rather like being on top, but more importantly, I want to make you happy. We Gryffindorks are nothing if not fair.”

Draco tries very, very hard to restrain the rather large grin stretching his lips. They stumble up another few stairs, into the wall and then into the railing, arms around one another. When Draco was little, everyone tried to make him happy. The world hasn’t worked that way for a very long time. And he never thought Neville Longbottom would be the one to restart that particularly wonderful phenomenon. When they reach the top of the first landing and have to turn to go up the next set, Draco mumbles, “Not tonight.” Because he’s been fantasizing about Neville’s cock all day, and tonight, that’s what he wants. He doesn’t mention that he always did prefer bottoming, anyway. When Neville flattens him into the opposite wall again, rubbing into him, he can feel how hard Neville is through all their layers. He can feel how big Neville is too, and he whimpers into Neville’s mouth.

Halfway up the last set of stairs, both of Neville’s hands stray to Draco’s hips and grab at the hem of his shirt. Draco follows that train surprisingly quickly, and he helpfully holds up his hands. Neville breaks their current kiss to pull Draco’s shirt off his head and toss it somewhere below them. He dives in and starts kissing Draco’s throat, his collarbone, his chest. Neville licks all the way down his stomach, and all the way back up, and their mouths reconnect, and Draco can taste his own skin on Neville’s tongue. When they level off at the top of the stairs, he manages to tug Neville’s shirt off, and he touches everywhere.

He doesn’t waste time going for Neville’s belt. He doesn’t know how on Earth they’ve managed to stay upright. He’s focused on Neville mouth, and Neville’s trousers, and what’s in Neville’s trousers. He pulls the belt off in one too-quick motion and instantly dives his hands inside, right beneath Neville’s boxers. Neville moans loudly against him and does a fantastic job of still guiding them across the darkened hall.

The door is already ajar, and Neville practically slams Draco into it, kissing him straight through to the other side. He fumbles with the wall for a light switch, and Draco pants between kisses, “What’re you doing?”

“You’re so beautiful,” Neville tells him, kissing his cheek and his lips and sucking on his tongue. “Wanna see you.”

Draco glows while Neville scrambles with the rest of their clothes. “Can you make it half?” Draco means to say dim. Halfway. But Neville’s already got their lips together again. By the time they stumble onto the bed, everything’s gone, just all skin on skin, and Neville shoves Draco down. Draco’s knees buckle, and his back bounces against the blankets. Draco keeps his arms around Neville’s shoulders, pulling Neville with him. When Neville pulls back, Draco tries not to let him.

“Gonna get my wand,” Neville mumbles, kissing him everywhere.

Draco groans, “Okay,” and lets go, even though he doesn’t want to. Neville leans up to peck his forehead and stumbles off the bed.

A wand flick and the lights go off, and the bedside lamp goes on, halfway. The curtains are already drawn—it’s a pale, warm radiance around them. Neville tosses his wand to the nightstand, within easy reach. It doesn’t even occur to Draco to try to grab it—it never really did. He’s left in just his collar. Would that stop him from using magic? It doesn’t matter. He’d get thrown in Azkaban if he tried.

And if he never got caught, he’d be on the run, instead of under Neville, kissing and grinding and burning all over. It’s everything he’s been waiting for, like it always is. Perfect. He clutches at Neville’s strong shoulders, feels Neville’s muscled stomach, fists in Neville’s disheveled hair. Neville touches Draco all over, kisses him all over, seems to love everything he sees and feels. He loops an arm under Draco’s waist and tries to turn Draco around in the blankets. Draco helps and moves himself, until his head’s resting in the pillows. Neville grinds into him, their hard dicks rubbing frantically against one another, and Draco moans between kisses, “Fuck me, fuck me please...”

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” Neville says. He kisses Draco’s cheek, licks Draco’s lips, bites at his neck. “...I want you so bad...”

“Want you too,” Draco groans, jostled by a particularly hard thrust that reminds him just how large and stiff Neville’s cock is. He slips his hands down to Neville’s chest and pushes weakly up.

Neville looks confused but obeys. It gives Draco enough room to roll over, and he tries to get up on his hands and knees, but Neville’s still in the way. He nudges at Neville with his shoulders and grinds his ass into Neville’s cock. “You’re in the way,” he whines.

Neville bites at his ear and whispers, “You’re so hot.”

Draco’s smile warps into a smirk, face already scrunched up in lust. His fingers are curling in the sheets, skin dusted in a thin, spotty sheen of sweat. Neville’s body is always so warm, it radiates heat, and Draco can feel it everywhere. He’s like a glowing sun that envelopes Draco in light, that Draco revolves around and couldn’t live without. Not anymore. Neville slowly moves up and pulls Draco with him, until Draco’s properly on all fours with Neville still draped over him. Draco wiggles his ass while he waits for Neville to fuck him.

Neville’s holding his hip and his stomach, playing with his nipples and kissing at the back of his neck. It’s hard for Draco to hold his head up and harder to keep his arms straight. Neville turns him into a puddle, and he’s impatient, starving for sex. When Neville’s fingers slide over his ass, it’s heaven, and Neville whispers in his ear, “Did you miss me?”

Draco shivers and shakes his head, too heady to form words and too proud to say ‘yes.’ Neville’s fingers squeeze at his cheeks, and stray fingertips keep brushing over his crack. Neville teasingly rubs just above Draco’s hole, playing with his soft flesh and making him moan and writhe.

“Not even a little bit?” Neville purrs, making Draco wonder again when Neville got so damn sexy. His voice is thick and deep, and his hands work at Draco’s ass and nipples with such skill, his mouth hot against Draco’s ear. When both of Draco’s nipples are impossibly hard, Neville’s hand slips down his stomach and splays right above Draco’s cock. Draco whines and tries to thrust himself into Neville’s hand, but Neville holds him tight and “tsk tsk”s him. “Eager little thing, for someone that hasn’t missed me.”

Draco groans and rubs himself shamelessly against Neville’s finger, which just won’t go in. “Shut it.” He’s all but forgotten that he’s Neville’s property; that he should play nice. Neville’s clearly as into it as he is but lets Draco suffer. He continues to tease Draco’s stomach and Draco’s rear, and Draco rocks between the two hands, trying to press back further to feel Neville’s cock again. He growls, “Neville...” in a frustrated warning.

He can feel Neville smirking. Neville nibbles at the back of his neck, and with an irritated sigh, Draco moves one of his arms back, reaching underneath himself to grab Neville’s hand. He’s too turned on to keep himself upright with just one arm, and it inevitably slips—Draco falls into the pillows, turning his head to the side, keeping his ass in the air. Neville follows him down, kissing all over his shoulders, and Draco tugs at Neville’s wrist, whimpering and trying to make it touch him. But Neville’s sturdy and won’t budge. He murmurs into Draco’s ear, “What do you think about when I’m gone?” 

Draco rolls his eyes, bites his lip, and bites his pride. He gives up on Neville’s wrist and reaches back behind himself, trying to grab Neville’s thigh and pull him closer. “You,” he moans. It works, and Neville moves Draco’s hand so he can grind his hips into Draco’s ass. He grabs Draco’s cheeks and spreads them apart, rubbing his cock in between them, over Draco’s crack. Draco practically cries out at the stimulation and whispers, “I missed you, fuck me, Neville, _fuck me_...”

An arm abruptly returns to his stomach, hiking him up—Draco obediently puts his hands back, flat on the mattress, keeping himself sturdy for Neville. Neville kisses him appreciatively, and Draco arches back into Neville’s taut stomach.

Neville moves away for less than a second, and Draco can guess what for. A murmured spell and he knows he’s right. When Neville’s fingers return to his ass, they’re coated in something wet and gooey, dancing over Draco’s entrance. Draco tries to thrust himself back, but Neville pulls away and coos, “Patience,” against the side of his face. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Hurt me,” Draco breathes, lashes fluttering. “Just fuck me already...”

But Neville’s still maddeningly gentle and rubs at his puckered hole far too lovingly. When a blunt fingertip finally forces its way inside, Draco’s gasp is rippled pleasure— _finally_. He tries to be still and patient while Neville slowly pushes it in, and Draco tries to relax—tries to be ready. He can’t wait for a second finger to join it, and he shifts excitedly when he can feel another curved nail around his entrance. It feels strange, of course, being breached by two fingers, carefully stretched apart and pushed into. But he knows what it leads to, and the anticipation bubbles on his skin. His cock is still hard between his legs, and Draco has to use all of his willpower not to touch it.

He doesn’t want it to be over too soon. He did miss Neville. He thought about Neville all day. He wants to enjoy Neville, for as long as he can, and he’s so needy and foggy right now that a few strokes would do it—he’d be shamelessly coming.

Neville adds a third finger; a courtesy Draco’s still not used to. But with Neville, he needs it. He knows how big Neville is, how full he’ll feel. But he’s impatient too, and he makes keening sounds while Neville slowly finger-fucks his ass, wetly and calm. Draco’s arms are shaking. When it becomes too much, and he just knows that Neville’s fingers are too close, too close to the right spot, too far in and too wide for him not to shiver in delight, Draco begs, “Neville...”

Neville immediately withdraws his fingers, and a second later, Draco can feel the spongy head of Neville’s large cock at his entrance, either leaking profusely or dripping in lube. Neville’s hands grab Draco’s hips, and Neville hisses above his ear, “Ready?”

Draco nods so fast he thinks his neck might snap. He just barely stops himself from pleading ‘yes,’ over and over again. Not that he has any pride left at this point. He’s a quivering mess and he wants Neville’s huge cock _in-him-right-now_.

Fortunately, Neville doesn’t need to be told twice. He pistons inside in a short burst, and Draco cries out as the head pops inside him. Neville bites into his shoulder, and Draco’s face contorts, the dual sensations competing in his addled head, as Neville pushes further in and further in. Bit by bit, he slides home into Draco’s ass, thickly and easily, all at once. It hardly hurts, but it burns, it’s so hot and it makes Draco almost drool. His mouth is open in a permanent moan, eyes half-lidded and pupils dilated. It fills him up all the way to the brim, so far Draco can hardly believe it, so big and perfect. When Neville’s balls hit Draco’s ass, Draco’s trembling all over, trying desperately to stay on all fours. Neville’s cock feels like it belongs inside him. It’s right at home, and they fit together so well. Neville’s chest presses into his back, Neville’s hands at his waist, Neville’s breath on his neck. Neville smells musky and masculine and a little earthy, like he always does.

He stills and waits. Draco adjusts. Then Draco whines and tries to wriggle against Neville. “You feel so good,” Neville hisses. Draco’s too far gone; he just moans. Neville kisses him and slides out. Draco mourns the loss of every precious centimeter, until Neville’s slamming back in, hard enough to make Draco fall forward, his hard cock bouncing between his legs. Neville pulls out again, slams in again, and each thrust makes Draco’s breath hitch. His lungs are struggling as it is. His heart is beating too fast. He’s glad Neville’s holding his hips, even if it’s tight, even if it’ll bruise; he needs it to stay upright. Neville pounds into him harder on every thrust, harder and harder, until it’s too much, and he sends Draco tumbling forwarding into the pillows again, and Neville holds his hips up. Neville’s still mounting him and fucking him like an animal, like a dog. It’s driving Draco mad, and he wants to touch himself, wants to touch himself so badly. But he doesn’t want it to end. Neville’s hitting that spot—Draco doesn’t know when he found the right angle, but it’s all _right_. Every thrust explodes pleasure inside him, snaking up his spine and crawling along his skin. It feels so good, so good. He waited all day and it’s so worth it...

He can feel Neville’s body falling over his, just as sticky with sweat, just as hot. It’s comforting. Neville’s arms slip down his body, up on either side of him, but his hips can’t fall—he’s still impaled on Neville’s huge cock. He can feel Neville’s balls slapping against him, Neville’s thighs clashing with his own. He wonders if he’ll be able to sit down tomorrow. He’s probably turning pink; he’ll probably bruise. Neville’s heavy shoulders pin him down into the mattress. Neville’s hands run up and down his arms and grab at his wrists, holding them up in the pillows, so Draco couldn’t touch himself even if he wanted to. “You’re so tight,” Neville growls in his ear. “So perfect. I wish I’d fucked you in school...”

Draco grunts, “Uhhhnnn...” and wants to agree. He wants to. His bangs are stuck to his forehead. Neville keeps slamming into him, so hard, splitting him open with delicious bliss. Neville bites at his neck, just little love bites, and licks over them and sucks. Draco wants to be marked. He wants to be covered in hickeys like a stupid teenager. He wants Neville’s fingerprints all over him, wants Neville’s name on his collar. In this moment, he wants the world to know who he belongs to, and he shudders, moaning, “N-Nev... ille...”

“It’s so hot that you waited for me,” Neville hisses, and he sounds like a great beast, deep and powerful. One of his hands slips from Draco’s wrist, trailing Draco’s arm, leaving goose-bumps behind. It plays down Draco’s shoulders, slips under his chest, palms his nipples, presses into his stomach. Draco gasps and arches up into Neville, wants them to be close, so close. He wants to glue them together, but with space to pull apart enough for Neville to fuck him, pound him into the mattress, just like this. Neville’s hand reaches his cock, and Neville’s strong fingers, hardened from work in the garden, wrap around his hard shaft. Neville doesn’t even have to stroke; the heavy force of his thrusts throw Draco into his hand, and Draco bounces in and out, overwhelmed with the stimulation from either side. Neville pumps his dick and slams into his ass, and Draco’s a wreck. It’s so good, he’s never been fucked like this, it’s fucking perfect it’s so good _it’s so good it’s so fucking perfect_...

Draco knows he can’t last long, but he still doesn’t want it to end. He feels warmth pool in his stomach, feels his balls tighten. He jerks in Neville’s hand and Neville fists him hard, and then he explodes. He shoots all over Neville’s fingers, coming hard, screaming his release and clutching the mattress for dear life. His orgasm rips through him with enough intensity to black him out, and his ass spasms around Neville’s cock.

Draco’s barely come down from his high, cock barely emptying of seed, when Neville bites hard into his shoulder, making Draco cry out again and tense in Neville’s arms. Neville pounds into Draco so hard that he topples forward into the mattress, pinned down by Neville’s wildly pistoning hips, as Neville comes hard inside him. He can feel it welling up, feel it splashing everywhere, and he’s still spasming and he’s gritting his teeth. He’s still high and heady and he’s never felt so ravished in his life. He couldn’t get back up on his knees if he wanted to. He’s boneless and spent, and Neville seems perfectly happy to fuck out his own orgasm.

When it’s all out, Neville collapses, sliding back in, buried to the hilt. He holds onto Draco tightly; Draco’s a panting mess.

Neville’s breathing just as heavily over his shoulder, heavy all over Draco’s back. Draco comes back down slowly. He feels limp, tired, and drained.

But he still reaches a hand back to grab Neville’s ass when Neville moves as if to pull out.

Draco holds him down for a few minutes, and Neville, indulgently, stays. When Draco’s too tired to hold his arm up anymore, he drops it, and Neville rolls out of him. Draco can feel the cum that pulls too, stretching out before falling across his ass. He glances over his shoulder as Neville wipes his dick off on Draco’s abused cheeks, and Draco flushes and wonders if it’s possible to get hard again so fast after such a mind-blowing orgasm.

Neville falls down next to Draco. A few seconds pass, and he murmurs, “I’ll... clean us up in a minute.”

Draco nods in approval and clenches his ass around Neville’s cum. A part of him wants to keep it inside him, but another part knows it’ll dry by the morning, and that won’t be pleasant.

Looking up at the ceiling, Neville breathes happily, “I was looking forward to that even before your note.” He stretches his arms behind his head, looking ridiculously satisfied.

Draco can’t stop a smirk. He shifts forward, resting his head against Neville’s chest, and snuggling up to his side. The room smells thickly of sex, and they’re both a little wet. They’ll definitely both need a shower before Neville goes to work tomorrow morning.

That makes Draco wonder, and his disconnected thoughts piece together, “Do you have handcuffs...?”

“Of course,” Neville mumbles, sounding a little confused. “I’m an Auror.”

Draco grins. “We should use them sometime.”

Neville snorts. “They’re not for sex. Heavy-duty, and full of anti-escape and anti-magic blocks.”

Draco pouts, even though Neville probably can’t see it. “My collar does that anyway.” He absently runs his fingers across Neville’s sweaty six-pack. “It’ll be extra kinky, given our positions...” He shifts so he can look up at Neville, trying to look impossibly enticing. “An Auror and a Death Eater, master and slave...”

He’s a bit surprised to see Neville wearing the hint of a frown. “...Don’t I have enough chains on you?”

Draco rolls his eyes. But he doesn’t want to get into this argument, not now. So instead he tries, “Can I handcuff you, then?”

Neville grins very broadly and chuckles, “Sure.”

Draco leans up to kiss him.


	12. Chapter 12

Draco wakes up to a rogue sunbeam prying nosily into his eyelids.

Rather than acknowledge it and let the sun win, Draco grunts and rolls over, snuggling into the burly, naked man next to him. Neville’s incredibly warm, and that makes Draco purr and press in closer. He throws a leg over Neville’s under the sheets, twisting them slightly, and wraps his arm over Neville’s chest. He shifts his head onto Neville’s shoulder and buries his face into Neville’s neck.

Neville makes a loud breathing-out sound, and Draco snaps, “Don’t.”

Neville sniffs and groggily mumbles, “Don’... what...?”

“Move,” Draco orders, “don’t move.” And then he kisses the side of Neville’s neck, feeling wonderfully content and comfortable.

Neville makes a soft chuckling sound and stiffly cracks his shoulders. Draco makes a warning noise in the back of his throat, and Neville laughs again and stays where he is.

Smirking over having won, Draco sighs. He can’t help but wonder how long he can get away with staying here.

All day, perhaps? Neville doesn’t work until late today. They could spend the morning right here, then spend the afternoon right here. It would be warm, relaxing, perfect, and maybe Draco would fall asleep again, but hopefully he wouldn’t.

He wants to soak this in. For a while, he does. Neville’s skin is the perfect pillow: smooth, warm, and soothing. Neville eventually trails a finger up Draco’s spine and plays absently with the back of his hair. It feels faintly like getting a scalp massage and just makes Draco even more relaxed.

Honestly, he can’t remember ever waking up feeling this satisfied: this safe and not _alone_. (He hardly used to let in friends, let alone _this_.)

And it’s with Neville Longbottom.

And that’s that, and Draco’s over it. Malfoys are supposed to get what they want, anyway, even if they aren’t supposed to want blood-traitors. Draco wouldn’t move for all the gold in Gringotts right now.

“We should shower,” Neville mumbles. When Draco doesn’t answer right away, Neville peers down at him, and Draco blinks back. Grinning, Neville asks, “Would that be alright? ...I do have work today...”

“Not until later,” Draco says. “I know your schedule.”

“I know you know.”

“You don’t have to go right now.” Draco shifts a bit lower down and drops his head to Neville’s chest. He traces light patterns there with the pads of his fingers and closes his eyes. Conversation over. Neville sighs indulgently and lets him.

* * *

Draco spits into the sink as the water spurts on beside him—Neville’s fiddling with the taps of the shower. “How warm do you want it?”

“Quite hot,” Draco mumbles through toothpaste, before scrubbing vigorously again. He’s had a drink and is sort of hungry. But Neville has to go to work soon, and he can buy lunch on the way, and he can’t buy a shower. And Draco’s not missing out on that if he can help it. Showering alone, like sleeping alone, now seems like a waste. He’ll make them breakfast afterwards.

Draco rinses out his mouth again and puts his toothbrush next to Neville’s. He’s about to turn to the shower when he notices how bubbly Neville’s brush still is. He pulls it out and runs it under the water, putting it back. When he then turns to the shower, Neville’s grinning. “Bothered you?”

“There’s no need to be a slob,” Draco answers, thrusting a hand under the steady stream of water. After a second, he decides it’s a good temperature and drops his hand, waiting for Neville to step inside.

Neville does, and Draco does after, and Neville pushes the shower door closed behind him. The steam billows up about them, and it leaves Draco contrastingly cold. But he lets Neville step in first, reaching for the shampoo. Neville pours a glob into his hands and starts lathering up his hair. Draco stifles vague daydreams of doing that for him, of sitting Neville down in a tub and washing him like a dog. Draco thinks he’d enjoy the excuse to touch everywhere, and also the opportunity to groom his own man the way he wants. Maybe they could take turns. Neville’s still making suds when he glances sideways at Draco and asks, “Aren’t you coming?”

“You’re in it; I’ll wait.” Draco folds his arms over his chest, partially because he’s cold and partially to hide the evidence of that. His nipples might be sticking out.

“There’s room for both of us.”

“No, there isn’t.”

Neville grabs Draco’s wrist and tugs him forwards a few steps. Draco stumbles on the shower mat, but Neville holds him steady. The spray hits his shoulder and streams down his side, making him shiver and warming him up. He presses tightly against Neville for more. Neville ducks his head under the showerhead, and Draco reaches around him for shampoo. He slicks his hair back with it and tries not to stare at the way the water plasters Neville’s hair to his forehead and trickles down his strong chest. It highlights every muscle and hugs every angle, making him glisten and shine. Some of the shampoo catches in the patch of dark curls at his crotch, and even limp, his cock looks huge. Draco bites his lip as he inadvertently stares at it, wondering vacantly if they have time for shower sex.

Neville’s now kneading conditioner in, not wasting any time, and mutters, “Should I shave today?”

Draco glances up and stops rubbing his own hair to run the back of his fingers over Neville’s jaw. The water’s slicked it all down too much, and his hand isn’t sensitive enough to tell. So Draco leans forward and rubs his cheek against Neville’s chin, smiling at the slight prickle. After a few rubs, he pulls back with a smile and decides, “Mm, could probably leave it another day. But you’ll have to shave it tomorrow—I’m not into beards.”

Neville’s grinning on the verge of an evident laugh. “While we’re dictating each other’s facial hair, I’m not either.”

“Pfft,” Draco scoffs, “Don’t be ridiculous. Have you ever seen a Malfoy with a beard?”

Neville raises his eyebrows but doesn’t mention the obvious; he’s probably never seen more than two Malfoys at all. Draco’s father grew a beard, once. Draco’s mother sent him straight back to the bathroom. Draco doesn’t grow facial hair that fast, anyway, for whatever reason.

Neville steps back out of the water while he waits for the conditioner to set, and Draco uses the opportunity to wash his own shampoo out. He steps fully into the spray and luxuriates under it. It’s got good water pressure, and it’s just that tiny bit too hot, just like Draco likes it. It cascades over his skin, leaving goose bumps everywhere. As soon as he gets the last stray bubbles out of his platinum hair, he feels something hard behind him. Neville’s arms wrap around him, and Neville’s hard abs press into his back, and Neville’s stiffening cock presses between his cheeks. Draco moans, warmed on both sides.

“You look so good I could eat you,” Neville hisses into his ear, before kissing the back of his neck. Draco reaches back and squeezes at Neville’s hip, wanting to pull him closer and making him grunt. His voice is a low, naturally sensual grumble: “I want you all the time.”

Draco shivers and mutters, “I want another round.” He presses back into Neville harder, and the water makes it easier for Neville’s dick to slide between his cheeks. Draco’s own groin is waking up, and the hot water licking at it doesn’t hurt things.

Neville bites the shell of his ear and growls, “I didn’t mean just for sex.” Draco’s heart constricts. Neville’s hands are sliding across his body, one rubbing over his nipples and the other tracing bubbles down his stomach. Neville’s fingers slip to the base of Draco’s cock, and Draco gasps as they gently squeeze and play with his balls. Those talented digits lift to wrap around Draco’s hard shaft, and Neville whispers, “But I’ll take that in the meantime.”

Draco’s heart starts beating erratically in his chest as Neville strokes him, soft but firm, hard and quick. He tilts his head further away from the water as it billows up between them, and Neville uses the opportunity to attack his neck, nipping and sucking and trailing light kisses. Draco’s eyes are closed, his lips parted, chest beating too fast. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. He’s supposed to please his master, not the other way around. But Neville is very much pleasing Draco, and Draco’s too on fire to protest.

The rhythm Neville strikes is steady, even, and his grip is almost rough. But his touch is gentle. The water that rivers down is the perfect lube and makes it easier. Neville goes all the way from base to tip, touching everything, and he attacks Draco’s neck as he does it, keeping the pleasure evenly dispersed all over Draco’s body. Draco doesn’t know what to do. He squeezes at Neville’s hip and wants to do _something_ , wants to help. Neville thrusts shallowly against him. Draco tries to be good, tries to be still.

But Neville’s too _hot_ for that. Neville gives hand jobs just as good as he fucks, and Draco can’t resist. He starts bucking into Neville’s hand, arching forward and trying for more. More pressure, more stimulation. Each time he falls back, his ass slams against Neville’s hard cock, and Draco can feel how big it is, how wide, how tall. Merlin, he wants it in him. He wants Neville touching him. Neville is touching him perfectly, and Draco doesn’t know how he’ll ever go back to his own hand. There’s something flawless in the way Neville does it. It’s simple, but Neville’s hand is bigger and stronger than Draco’s, and he squeezes a little more, and he’s warm all over Draco’s back. He whispers, “You’re gorgeous,” in Draco’s ear, and it makes Draco’s whole body thrum with delight. It’s just a hand job. But he feels so _wanted_...

That’s the biggest aphrodisiac of all. Draco doesn’t need an aphrodisiac. Neville’s ruined him. Draco’s going to start getting hard just at Neville’s voice, or Neville’s mere touch, or watching Neville eat across the table. When Neville comes home, Draco already wants to run into his arms. He’s a brainless, lovesick puppy. He’s in lust, too. The water beats down on his frantically racing heart, and it’s too much. Draco explodes way too soon all over Neville’s hand. It splatters against the wall of a shower, and his knees would buckle if Neville weren’t holding him up.

Draco barely takes a minute. His head doesn’t come down like it should. He stays foggy, stays raunchy, stays tingling all over his skin. He’s slumping back into Neville, feeling him all over.

Draco turns around groggily, swaying a little. His ass is still a little sore from last night. Draco kisses Neville with all the energy left, and his limp cock rubs against Neville’s full one. Neville kisses back feverishly and holds his arms tightly. Their tongues duel and Draco moans, even though he’s already done. His cock is satiated. The rest of him isn’t.

He parts to kiss the side of Neville’s mouth and Neville’s jaw. He kisses down Neville’s neck, chest, stomach, falling to his knees. The water rains over his back, keeping him warm, and he can feel it burning a trail down his spine, slipping between his raw cheeks. It’s sort of soothing. Neville looks down at him, panting heavily, pupils dilated.

Draco holds onto Neville’s hips and sloppily kisses the head of Neville’s cock. Neville groans. Draco kisses it again, flattening his lips against the tip, pressing his tongue into the slit and lapping at it hungrily. It tastes very faintly of the shampoo: sort of mint-y. Draco doesn’t care. He pops his mouth over the head and sucks at it, and Neville’s delicious precum drowns out the soap. Neville’s hands climb to his hair, and Draco smirks around Neville’s cock.

For once, Neville doesn’t say, ‘you don’t have to.’ Which is good, because Draco’s mouth is full, and he couldn’t snap back that he really, desperately wants to. Neville’s cock is heavy on his tongue, and Draco could suck on it all day. Instead, he slowly lowers himself down onto it, sucking the whole way and trying to take in more. It’s so wide that his jaw almost aches, and so long that he has to relax his throat. But he gets there. He holds Neville still, and Neville’s kind and doesn’t rut into Draco. His thighs tremble, like he wants to, but he doesn’t. His fingers fist in Draco’s hair though, almost tight enough to hurt.

Draco enjoys the burn. He knows it’s fucked up, and he doesn’t care. (He used to enjoy sucking cock, sometimes, the _right_ cock, and he’d fantasize about getting it _rough_ but never met the right person.) He likes Neville tugging at him and likes the head of Neville’s cock at the back of his throat. He likes bobbing up and down on Neville’s mammoth dick and loves sucking at it. His tongue is pressed tightly along the underside, and he tries to use it as much as he can, tries to do everything he can. He wants to make Neville feel as good as Neville makes him feel, and he wants to taste it all along the way. Neville smells like the shampoo too, but Draco can also pick up the muskier, earthier scent underneath, the part that’s just _Neville_. Draco goes as fast as he can without gagging. He chokes himself on Neville’s cock, hollowing out his cheeks and absolutely _moaning_ around it.

Neville doesn’t last long, either. Too soon, he wrenches Draco down and holds him in place. Draco wants to keep going. But Neville twitches and comes violently in his mouth, and warm cum hits the back of his throat. Draco makes a muffled choking sound but instantly works to swallow it, adam’s apple bobbing up and down. Neville comes in proportion to how big he is: so much, so hard. It pours down Draco’s throat like a drink, and he slurps at it like it’s his favourite. Like it’s his new water. He swallows every bit he’s given and still sucks, milking out every last drop. Neville moans hoarsely, “ _Draco_ ,” above him, and it makes him giddy.

Draco doesn’t want to let go. But he lets Neville slip out of his lips afterwards, leaving a white trail. He forces his eyes open and looks up through his heavy, lowered lashes. Neville’s got one arm against the shower wall, leaning on it. He’s still breathing heavily.

Draco keeps their eyes connected as he slowly licks his lips.

The water beats down on his back, and Neville helps Draco back to his feet. As soon as he’s standing, Neville kisses him sweetly on the lips, and Draco smiles against him, wishing he could get himself hard again immediately. He wishes Neville didn’t have to work. When the kiss ends, he keeps his face close, nuzzling his chin into Neville’s stubble with a warm smile.

* * *

Draco makes pasta, because it’s the quickest and easiest, and they used up all their other time. He drains it while Neville ties his shoes in the hallway, and asks, “What do you want for your birthday?”

Draco places the pot back down on the turned-off stove and freezes. He glances over his shoulder and drawls, “What?”

Neville straightens out and reaches for his robes. Draco shakes himself back to his senses and walks to the fridge, pulling out pasta sauce and parmesan. “Your birthday. It’s next week, isn’t it? What do you want?”

Draco closes the fridge and walks back to the stove. He mixes the sauce and cheese in with the pasta, then fishes a square container out of the cupboard. He packs Neville’s dinner and shrugs. “I’m a prisoner—I can’t have things.” And he tries not to sound emotional about it.

He turns around to hand Neville the container and almost yelps at how close Neville’s standing. Apparently being an Auror has also made him stealthier. He bends forward and kisses Draco’s cheek. When he pulls back, he mumbles, “I’ll think of something.”

To tell the truth, Draco doesn’t need things. He isn’t as put out about it as he would’ve once thought. Neville gives him everything he wants, and his life is relatively easy and peaceful now. All the things he used to ask for—a new broom, a new cauldron, whatever—he couldn’t use now, anyway. And it doesn’t really matter. He doesn’t want to dwell too much on what he can’t have and is uncharacteristically un-sullen for reasons he can’t fathom. Neville takes the container out of Draco’s hands and leaves the kitchen.

Draco follows him into the hallway, and Neville stops after unlocking the door. He turns around and says, “You should owl your mother.”

Draco’s eyes widen.

“I’m sorry about your father, but your mother wasn’t found to be a Death Eater, so you’re still allowed to communicate with her. ...I’m sorry I didn’t think to clarify that earlier.”

Draco shakes his head in disbelief and mumbles thickly, “...That’s okay.” Maybe he should’ve been complaining louder. If he had whined about it the first day, would he have been owling her by now?

Neville shrugs. “It was stupid of me. I’m not that... good with parents. ...Anyway, I’ll send you an owl from my office. Unfortunately, you can’t talk to her through the Floo—the collar will stop it from working.”

Draco nods and sniffs. He wouldn’t have been stupid enough to try. But then, he wouldn’t have tried to owl his mother, either.

Neville steps forward and kisses Draco on the cheek, and Draco throws his arms around Neville. He hugs Neville tightly and tries to say with it, ‘ _thank you_.’

Then Neville leaves and locks the door behind him. Draco watches through the peephole as Neville walks down the steps and Apparates away.

* * *

Draco starts on the letter long before he gets the owl. But the owl still comes before he’s finished, tapping angrily on the window and jerking Draco out of his muddled stupor. He gets up, walks to the kitchen, and lets the owl in. It lands on his shoulder, and he carries it into the living room.

It’s small, brown, and vaguely cuddly. It hops onto the table and stares at Draco’s one sentence, tilting its head. Draco frowns and feels stupidly like the owl is judging him.

He’s having a... difficult time. He’s not exactly sure how to tell his mother, his wonderful, loving, pureblood mother, that he’s been sold as little more than a slave and has fallen madly in love with his Gryffindor, Auror, blood-traitor captor. ...Well, not really captor. Neville isn’t the one holding him; the Ministry is, and it’s not forever, though Draco doesn’t like to think of that. And Draco has no love for the Ministry. ...At least Neville’s a pureblood...

There’s a note in the owl’s beak that Draco pulls out.

It says simply:

‘ _Draco,_

_Here’s Chirdy. Please take care of her and send your mother my best. You don’t have to tell her everything at once; from now on, I’ll leave Chirdy at home whenever I can, and hopefully you two can get back in touch. Best of luck,_

_Neville_

_P.S. Please don’t tell her I’m torturing you—I don’t want to have to angry-mother-proof the house._ ’

Draco smiles at the letter and dips his quill back into the ink. He didn’t even think about that, rather just assumed, that Neville would let him send more. The reassurance takes some of the pressure off. He still debates telling his mother about Neville, especially whether or not to do so right off the bat, but then he resignedly decides she’d ask immediately, anyway. In the end, he settles for:

‘ _Dearest Mother,_

_I hope you are well. I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch, but I am now writing to inform you that I’m alright. I’m not sure if you’ve heard or not, but I’ve been purchased by Neville Longbottom. Please don’t worry—he treats me very well._

_Hope to speak to you soon,_

_Your loving son,_  
 _Draco_ ’

Still slightly anxious about it, Draco hands the owl his letter. She takes it with a happy chirp and climbs back up his arm to his shoulder. Her claws are slightly sharp and stick to his shirt but don’t pierce. He carries her back to the kitchen, lets her out the front window, and watches her fly off into the distance.

Then he wanders back into the living room and decides he’ll dust. Then sweep the kitchen, and maybe scrub the bathroom. ...He needs to give himself things to do, or he’ll just sit around longing for Neville. He’s usually glad he doesn’t have to go to any job—even in Hogwarts, he was spoiled—the thought of _working_ seemed so unpleasant—but now he desperately needs a distraction.

In every room Draco cleans, he keeps the door or window open, just in case the owl comes back.


	13. Chapter 13

_‘My Dearest Draco,_

_I’m sorry to hear about those robes—perhaps you can send them to me? My wand may be restricted, but I’m confident I can still fix them. I’d like to send them back with a few books from the Manor’s library to pass the time, if that’s alright with Neville. Speaking of which, I saw him in the Prophet last Tuesday. It looks like he’s doing very well in his job; I hope that bodes well for you. Does he read these letters, by the way? I imagine they’re screened. I’m not sure if you’re allowed to tell me or not anyway, but it would be good to know. I don’t want to embarrass you. Thank you for your continued letters—you have no idea what it means to me to know that you’re well. If there’s anything else you need, please do let me know. I think of you every day._

_With all my love,  
Mother.’ _

“Happy birthday,” Neville pulls out the chair on the other side of the table and eases in, carrying a stack of homemade waffles. (Which Draco made rather expertly, by the way.) “Another letter?”

“From yesterday morning,” Draco chirps, putting down his water. “But I forgot to mention a few things. Oh, and thank you.”

Neville puts down his coffee, raising a brow as he picks up his fork. “A few things?”

Draco cuts his waffles into neat, small pieces, and tries his best to sound casual as he drawls, “...Are you surveying my mail?”

“Whab?”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Neville smiles and swallows. He cuts out another piece as he says, “Er, no. Although I’m supposed to. Why, are you plotting to bring Voldemort back?”

Draco stiffens, even though he knows Neville’s joking.

Frowning at the reaction, Neville says, “Sorry.”

Draco shrugs and tries to let that be the end of it. Moving on. “Anyway, would it be alright for her to send me books, and for me to send her that robe you ripped in the garden the other day? I’m not good at tricky seam-work.”

Neville seems to consider this and chews another piece of waffle before answering. He puts on less syrup than Draco does, but then, Draco has a larger sweet tooth than most. “For the robe, sure, although I’ll have to check it over when I get it back. For the books... er, I hate to do this, but I’d rather she didn’t. I’d have to survey it all for not only enchantments but hidden messages... not that I think she’d put them, but if the Ministry finds out about it, they could take you away.” Draco goes rigid in his seat and decides instantly that his boredom is not that pressing an issue. He’ll take being bored in Neville’s living room over being bored in Azkaban any day. “...Look, how about you get her to owl me the titles you want, and I’ll stop by Flourish and Blotts sometime and just buy them for you.”

That’s a good compromise. They won’t be first editions like at Malfoy Manor, and Flourish and Blotts probably won’t have all the titles. But he’s still getting what he wants, so Draco still smiles. Then there’s a banging sound in the other room, and they both twist over to look at the wall separating them from the kitchen. “Did you let Chirdy out?” Draco muses. They don’t usually let her out this early in the morning, and it’s a weekend, so Neville doesn’t need her for work. The tapping sound occurs again, and Neville pushes his chair back.

“Actually, I think that’ll be your present. Well, news of your present, anyway.”

As Neville walks to the kitchen Draco flushes and calls, “You didn’t have to do anything!” while secretly glowing. Technically, Draco’s never _not_ gotten anything for his birthday. Even during the war, his mother found time to send him a cake, and his father gave him a crystal potions set. The thought of spending special days without them still bothers him, without anything from his father, without a present from his mother, or the company of any of his old friends.

He’s basically been trying not to think about it and pretending it’s not his birthday. While they were pulling on clothes in separate rooms this morning, Draco even sullenly thought to himself, ‘slaves don’t have birthdays, so stop it.’

Neville, apparently, didn’t get that memo. He walks back into the living room with a rolled up copy of _The Daily Prophet_ , which he lightly drops on the table and pushes towards Draco.

The front cover is something about an attempted Gringotts break-in. He glances up at Neville with a mildly sarcastic smile. “You broke into Gringotts for my birthday? Wow, you really didn’t have to do that...”

Neville rolls his eyes, then shrugs. “Sorry, it’s not headline news, I guess. Flip through it—I’m sure it’s in there.”

“What’s in here?”

“You’ll know.”

Draco rolls his eyes right back and flips the paper open. His eyes skip over the flashing celebrity pictures with intense disinterest—the rest of the world isn’t really something that concerns him anymore. He sort of resents it. He skims the index and shudders every time he reads the word ‘Azkaban.’

But that’s the closest sounding thing. ‘The latest in Death Eater news’ is the only phrase that even remotely relates to him, so Draco flips to B7.

Immediately, the black-and-white photo blinds him, and Draco _stares._

The frowning face of his father, dressed in the tattered robes of a prisoner, stares back at him, looking mildly surprise and overwhelming relieved.

The background of the picture is a cell—the foreground the open bars. An Auror Draco doesn’t recognize is shaking his father’s hand without smiling, and the brunet head of another Auror is in the edge of the frame. Draco knows the back of Neville’s head by now as well as he knows the front. It takes Draco several minutes to tear his eyes away from the picture for long enough to read the article. He doesn’t get any further than the title.

_‘Ex-Death Eater, Lucius Malfoy, Paroled on Good Behavior and First-Class Auror Recommendation.’_

Draco looks up across the table, his grey eyes wide as saucers.

Neville’s eating his waffle without looking away from Draco’s face and mumbles around his mouthful, “Happy birthday.”

Draco might be crying. He thinks he is. His eyes feel watery. He gulps and shakily asks, “He’s free?”

“House-arrest,” Neville corrects. “Can only leave under direct Auror supervision, with written permission beforehand. But essentially, yes. Anyway, sorry again about last night, but now you know why I had to work late.”

Draco works his mouth, still trying to speak. “Our house?”

“He was released to Malfoy Manor,” Neville nods. “Although we did a rather lengthy raid of it the day before and put a few surveillance spells around the outer perimeter. Just the usual stuff—he won’t be able to Apparate yet, and his wand won’t be returned for another year. No Dark Magic of any kind, obviously. Your mother picked him up last night, and a colleague and myself escorted them home.”

“How... how is he...?”

Neville tilts his head and makes a sort of frowning gesture. “Shaky. A bit worse than you were when you first arrived—kept looking like we were going to destroy him. But sophisticated, otherwise, if that makes any sense. Very grateful. I’m sure he’ll coast through parole and get his wand and freedom back in no time.”

“And you... you did this?”

Neville shrugs. “A few of his actions during the war helped. Your mother’s actions helped a lot, too. And he’s been—er—well-behaved in Azkaban.” He looks sort of uncomfortable as he says it, and Draco can’t fathom why.

There’s no room for shame.

He’s too busy exploding in relief, and it washes over him like an ocean.

Draco abruptly pushes himself back from the table and stands up to walk haltingly around it. Neville puts his fork down and pushes his plate aside, and Draco sits down on his lap. Neville lightly holds Draco’s back, stroking it soothingly, and Draco throws his arms around Neville’s shoulders. He hugs Neville tighter than he’s ever held anyone in his life and scrunches his eyes up, trying to blink away the on-slaughter of tears. “ _Thank you._ ” Draco’s not good with showing appreciation. But he’s never been so grateful for anything in his life. He’s never received a better birthday present. He’s so overwhelmed, and the tears that run down his face trickle onto Neville’s sweatervest and get into Draco’s mouth. He’s trembling all over, and he’s so overwhelmed he could burst. He mutters nonsensically, _“Thank you, thank you, thank you,”_ over and over again.

Neville continues to rub him gently, and kisses the side of his cheek warmly. He mumbles quietly through Draco’s broken mantra, “I’m sorry you can’t visit him. Not until his parole’s over, or I manage to work something out, anyway. But you can owl him, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“ _Thank you._ ” Draco sounds like a broken record—a broken person. He wants to hold his father again so badly he can barely stand it, but knowing, just knowing, that he’s okay, is so much. It’s everything, and Draco thinks of his mother getting to hug his father again and how wonderful that must be for her. How wonderful it will be for Draco, when he can someday hold them both.

He clings to Neville like a child and doesn’t want to let go.

* * *

For the next couple hours, Draco keeps randomly breaking into tears. He stopped worrying about it awhile back, and Neville’s started to chuckle softly at him over it. Draco smiles back, looking absolutely insane, with wide, showing teeth, and wet, streaming cheeks. When a package arrives with his mother’s owl, Draco sets it down on the living room table and automatically walks passed the couch to the sliding glass doors. Neville didn’t want to do garden work today, even though he does it every weekend. He wanted to do whatever Draco wanted, because it’s Draco’s birthday.

But every time Neville’s within five meters of Draco, he feels the need to run over and firmly attach himself to Neville’s side. And even just to his already-very-embarrassed self, it’s getting a little silly. He was trying to make lunch in peace. Neville said he’d make Draco lunch for once, but Neville’s disastrous in the kitchen, and Draco has nothing better to do. He sent Neville to the garden to get him some mushrooms—he’s going to make vegetable lasagna.

Then the owl came, and Draco’s not sure if he can open it. And he certainly isn’t going to do anything to rock his incredibly amazing boat now.

He slides the glass door open and calls, “Neville, I got a package!”

“Is it ticking?” Neville asks.

“What?” Draco raises an eyebrow.

“Er, nevermind. Muggle joke from the office.” Neville stands up, clutching a bowl of fresh mushrooms in one hand and patting down his pants with the other. He walks over to the mat by the front and wipes off his shoes, before Draco rolls his eyes and bends down to untie them. Neville lets Draco fuss, because they’ve had arguments over less.

When the laces are undone, Neville steps out of them and inside around Draco, then walks over to the table. He puts down the bowl and picks up the parcel. There are four envelopes on top, two addressed to each of them.

Draco mumbles behind him, “Can I open it?”

Neville pulls his wand out of his pocket and taps the package. Nothing happens. He nods. “Yeah, but we should probably read the letters first. ...Sorry, but I’d like to read them all, since it’s a whole package.”

Draco nods in understanding and says, “You go first.”

His stomach is doing flips. He recognizes both sets of handwriting and snuggles up to Neville’s side while Neville slides the first letter out of its envelope. The action is made slightly harder by Draco having their arms looped together.

“Dear Mr. Longbottom,” Neville reads, and then stops to mumble, “...She doesn’t have to be so formal...” He shrugs, but doesn’t continue reading aloud. Draco rests his head on Neville’s shoulder, and reads over it.

_‘Dear Mr. Longbottom,_

_Words cannot express how much gratitude I have for you. You’ve saved both of my men from utter hopelessness, and I am forever indebted to you. If there is ever anything that you think I may be able to offer you, please don’t hesitate to ask. Lucius is home safe and sound, and he’s spent most of the day resting, but he is equally as grateful. You will always be in our hearts._

_As I’m sure you’re aware, today is Draco’s birthday. I wasn’t sure what I’d be able to send him under the circumstances, but hopefully a simple cake will be acceptable. I understand if it isn’t. Thank you for taking care of him. That means more to me than you’ll ever know._

_Best wishes,  
Narcissa Malfoy_

_P.S. Draco speaks most highly of you. Don’t let his hard shell deter you—your kindness has not gone unnoticed by him.’_

Draco is very pink by the end of this letter.

Neville, indeed very kindly, doesn’t say anything about the last part. “That’s very nice of her. The cake’s fine—I don’t think she’d poison her own son. We can have it with lunch.” He reaches for the second letter without looking at Draco.

The handwriting on the second letter Draco recognizes instantly, although with a little less sureness than the first. It’s shakier than it used to be and less consistent. A younger Lucius might’ve made himself rewrite it.

This letter is rather concise and reads simply:

_‘Thank you._

_\- Lucius Malfoy’_

Draco glances up at Neville’s face, which has a slight grin on it. “Man of few words, your father. ...Odd, considering how mouthy you are.”

Draco chuckles. But he knows his father is probably tired as hell—probably marveling at the feel of heating and bedding again. And human touch. He imagines his parents wrote the letters with their other hands entwined or something similar. They’ve always been close, and Draco understands more than anyone how magnified all of those pleasantries are when you’ve been without them for so long.

He also imagines it must’ve been difficult for his father to write even the two words, so he’s grateful. After a minute of neither moving, Neville hands Draco another letter—this one addressed to him.

His mother’s writing.

_‘My Darling Draco,_

_Happy Birthday, sweetie! Your father and I love you more than words can say! Enclosed is a cake. I wish we could give you more, but I wasn’t sure what would be alright to send, and I’m afraid I have my hands a tad full with your father—I don’t have the heart to make him leave the bed. Don’t you worry; he’s just tired, but still well. He misses you very much. We both do. I hope you know that the day you were born was the best day of both of our lives. I wish you the most wondrous time imaginable._

_All of my love,  
Mother_

_P.S. Your father wanted to write a separate letter; his is attached. We’re also owling Neville—please have him check if the cake is alright._

_P.P.S. MARRY THAT MAN.’_

Draco turns an even darker shade of pink but doesn’t read the last line fast enough to turn it away from Neville. He glances sideways; Neville’s hazel eyes are very wide. He looks stunned.

Draco opens his mouth but has nothing to say. So instead, he turns and grabs the other letter, hoping to Merlin it’ll be less embarrassing and ridiculous. (It’s very good to know he has his mother’s approval, though. ...Although she’s probably a little biased at the moment. Getting Draco’s father back has probably replaced his own birth date as the happiest in her life.)

The second letter addressed to Draco is equally as shaky and poorly-formed as Neville’s. Draco still clutches it tightly with slightly trembling fingers.

_‘Dear Draco,_

_I am now safely at home with your mother. I will write you more when I recover more strength. Happy Birthday._

_I love you,  
Father.’_

Draco holds onto the letter long after he’s finished reading.

Neville kindly lets him, and eventually Draco releases a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The letter joins the pile of others on the table—letters Draco will keep, like always. There’s a warm fluttering in his stomach that hasn’t gone away since this morning, and it’s a wonder he can walk straight. He turns and hugs Neville again, simply because he can.

And now he has his mother’s approval, and it oddly makes him cling tighter. And Neville knows it. Neville seems to try and wait for Draco to finish, but Draco doesn’t. So after a few moments, Neville drops his arm to the small of Draco’s back. He makes a move for the kitchen, as though he’s going to drag Draco along. Draco, rather unhelpfully, doesn’t move.

Neville ducks down, and Draco exclaims, “Hey!” as Neville scoops him up into the air. He ‘eep’s, and throws his arms around Neville’s neck. Neville holds him securely under his knees and his shoulders. Neville carries him over to the couch and deposits him lovingly onto it, like a husband who’s just carried his bride over the threshold. The strength in Neville’s arms doesn’t go unnoticed.

Neville pecks him on the cheek and mutters, “I’ll serve the cake. Happy birthday.”

Draco feels like he’s been told that a hundred times. He went to Paris once, for his birthday.

This is better.

This is the best birthday Draco’s ever had, even if he hasn’t really gotten anything but what he once had. He appreciates everything more now. Neville comes out of the kitchen with plates and opens the box. Draco sits up on his knees and leans over the armrest to examine his cake—beautifully decorated in silver and green stripes, with chunks of brownies on top and colourful sprinkles. No matter how old he gets, Draco’s mother seems to always see him as a child. Draco doesn’t usually complain; he likes being spoiled. Neville cuts through the word ‘darling,’ at the bottom, giving them two hearty slices.

“Should we have lunch first?” Draco asks.

Neville shrugs. “There’s plenty for us to still have some later for dessert, and maybe even some tomorrow morning.” Then he pauses and looks over his shoulder. “Do you not want it now?”

“I want it immediately,” Draco says. Because he knows his mother _made_ it—she wouldn’t have bought it. And Draco’s mother is the most fabulous cook in all the world. Neville may not know that yet, but he’s about to. Neville puts a fork on each of their plates and carries them over to the couch.

It’s good to be served again. Draco hasn’t been served since Hogwarts, and that’s counting the feasts in the Great Hall. Being properly served hasn’t happened since second year, when he still had a house elf. That’s not counting restaurants, of course, but Draco hasn’t been to any of those since he was in school, either.

They eat their cake on the couch, sitting next to one another, legs touching. Draco shifts and loops his closest leg over Neville’s, trying to get closer still. Their shoulders are touching. The cake is marble and absolutely delicious. It melts in his mouth—perfectly fluffy and moist.

A few bites in, Neville says, “I see where you got your cooking ability.”

Full of pride, Draco chirps, “My mother is an excellent baker.”

Neville chuckles, and nods, carving out another forkful. Draco savours every bite. He hasn’t tasted something so delicious in ages. He finishes his piece first and watches Neville out of the corner of his eyes.

Done eating, he leans forward and puts his plate on the coffee table. Then he turns to Neville and grabs the fork right out of Neville’s hand.

Neville looks at him funny, and Draco turns it around. “Say ahh.”

Grinning and rolling his eyes, Neville opens his mouth. Draco puts the piece in and leans forward as soon as Neville’s lips close around it, darting in for a chaste kiss. Neville makes an amused sound and chews quietly. Draco splits the remaining chunk in two with the fork and gets ready for when Neville’s finished.

When he swallows, Draco coos sweetly, “Open up, master.”

Neville raises an eyebrow but complies. Draco feeds him the last two pieces and waits for Neville to finish chewing before going in for a full kiss. Neville kisses Draco back and loops an arm around Draco’s waist, so he can bend them forward and throw his plate to the coffee table without looking. It clatters onto the surface, and they keep kissing. Neville tastes so sweet from the cake that it makes Draco heady, giving him a giddy sugar rush. He’s having the best birthday of his life, and really, there’s only one thing that could make it better.

As he parts their lips, Draco whispers, “Make love to me,” next to Neville’s cheek.

He’s never said it like that before. He always thought it was stupid when people described sex like that, but right now, it’s the best description he has. He could be raunchy, could be naughty, and he wants to—is going to. But first, he wants to just make _love_ , to show Neville how much he appreciates everything. How much he wants everything. Draco shifts to straddle Neville’s lap and grinds his hardening groin into Neville’s.

Neville growls huskily, “Bedroom?”

Draco shakes his head and runs his hands down Neville’s body, bunching up his sweatervest and reaching for his belt. “Too far. Just fuck me here.” Neville’s getting hard too, and Draco grabs Neville’s hem, pulling the sweatervest over his head. Neville lifts his arms to help. Then they fall to the back of the couch, and Draco fiddles with the buttons down Neville’s long-sleeved shirt.

“It’s your birthday,” Neville purrs, and his eyes are a half-lidded, thick with clear lust, as he looks at Draco. “Do you want to be on top yet?”

Draco shakes his head again. “I want your fat cock.” Neville shudders at the words, and Draco knows his own cheeks are pink. It’d be such a waste, now that he knows how _big_ Neville is, not to have that in him. When he gets to the last button, he drops his hands to squeeze Neville through his trousers, and Neville grunts. “You’re so big, Neville,” Draco whines with need, sounding deliberately wanton. But Neville does that to him. “You’re the best present...”

He stops for a second.

“Well, no, my father was the best present.” Draco grins as he brushes Neville’s shirt off his shoulders, marveling at the taut muscles below his fingers. “But you’re the second best.” His voice gets lower again, and he purrs, “If you’d woken me up with a bow around your dick, I’d have still been very happy.” He leans forward and licks at Neville’s ear, huskily breathing into it, “Even my mother’s cakes don’t taste as delicious as your cum.”

And he pulls back to lick his lips pointedly in front of Neville, eyelashes lowered.

Neville leans forward to kiss him so fast that Draco almost loses balance. Neville devours Draco’s mouth with fierce intensity, and those rough fingers start to tug at his clothes. Neville breaks the kiss only long enough to pull Draco’s shirt over his head, and it’s tossed carelessly aside. Draco jerks at Neville’s belt, wanting it gone.

As Draco’s fiddling with the loop, Neville mutters, “Fuck this.” With a wave of his wand, their trousers are instantaneously gone, and Draco squeaks against Neville’s lips. Suddenly their bare, hard cocks are rubbing together, and Draco’s sore ass is rubbing against Neville’s thighs, with his legs spread and his ankles at Neville’s knees. He starts grinding harder into Neville, humping Neville like a dog in heat, and his eyes roll back in his head at the friction. Neville waves his wand again, and another spell has Draco’s hole twitching and stretching, dripping with lube.

He sort of wanted to go slow and gentle today. But he’ll definitely take fast and hard. He’s impatient, anyway. He bites at the side of Neville’s jaw and whimpers, “I want your huge dick inside me so bad...” How did he get so turned on so fast? He wriggles his bum against Neville’s thighs for emphasis and can feel his cheeks already parted, spread out as his legs tense, open. “Mmmm, Neville, fuck me... have sex with me, have your way with me... make love to me...” He bounces himself up and down, thrusting his hips forward in a rapid pace. “I want you so bad.” He’s breathless but still moans, “ _Neviiille_...”

“Fuck,” Neville swears.

He grabs Draco firmly by the hips, and as he suddenly stands up, he pulls Draco with him. Draco makes a startled cry, but Neville’s already scooping up his legs again, carrying him bride-style. Draco wraps his arms tightly around Neville’s bare shoulders as Neville tightly holds his. Then Neville bends them down a little and mumbles, “Can you grab my wand?”

Draco _stares._

He’s never touched Neville’s wand. He’s never even tried—never even considered it. Will his collar burn him? Or only if he tries to use magic? Either way, he looks at Neville skeptically, and Neville says softly, “It’s safe, I promise. You just can’t try to use magic with it. But we might need it later, to clean up and whatnot, and... er, my hands are sort of full...” He smiles sheepishly.

Draco is slow in reaching over to the coffee table, where Neville’s wand has been tossed. He shivers as soon as he picks it up—he can feel the magic under his fingertips. It runs through his veins and makes him pulsate with the memory of it. He wraps his arms back around Neville’s neck, gripping the wand firmly.

Losing his magic was the hardest part of being sentenced. As a pureblood, Draco never thought he’d be without it. His magic was what made him superior: a Malfoy. But he’s been without it so long that he’s grown used to the absence. Holding Neville’s wand, even though he can’t use it, is somewhat...

Liberating.

And it means that Neville trusts him. Him. A Death Eater, a Slytherin, a Malfoy. Neville never mentions his faded, almost-gone-with-the-Dark-Lord’s-absence Dark Mark, but Draco still knows it’s there, hiding dormant under his skin. Sometimes, Draco wonders how Neville stands to see him naked, but evidently, Neville doesn’t have a problem.

Neville stands up fully and carries Draco like he doesn’t weigh a thing. Draco’s dick, somewhat deflated with this tangent, bounces in his lap as Neville carries him easily across the living room and over to the stairs. Numb again with feeling, Draco mumbles, “Neville...”

“You want to make love; we’re going to do it right.” And that’s that. Neville carries him lovingly up the stairs, around the corner, and Draco holds on tight, clutching Neville’s wand and burying his face in Neville’s neck. Neville’s hands feel so strong underneath him, so powerful, and both adoration and anticipation swell in Draco’s chest as they cross the upper hallway. Neville has to shift Draco a bit awkwardly in his arms to fiddle with the handle, but it opens. He carries Draco into the bedroom and directly over to the bed. He deposits Draco gently down onto the mattress, kissing Draco’s forehead and smoothing out his hair. Draco wriggles to get comfortable in the pillows. He holds Neville’s wand tightly against his chest and feels the hidden magic against his heartbeat.

Neville seems to notice this, and his lips twist in a bit of a frown. He says, softly, “I’m sorry you can’t use magic.”

Draco shakes his head. He hasn’t used magic in what feels like a decade. He’ll be sullen about it another time. “Thank you for letting me hold your wand.”

Neville smiles softly and brushes a stray strand of platinum hair behind Draco’s ear. “I can’t let you use magic yet, but you can hold it any time you like, and just call me if you need a spell. You know I’ll do anything for you.” He leans in for a warm, lasting kiss.

When he pulls back, Draco’s smiling broadly. He thinks he might cry again. He holds the wand out to try and stop himself, and Neville gently takes it from his open hand. When their fingers brush, Draco shivers and remembers why they came up here. What he still wants, why they’re both still completely naked, except for the collar, which irrevocably links them together. He drawls quietly, “Can you draw the curtains and dim the lights?”

Neville nods and flicks his wand. The door closes, the curtains slide shut, and the bedside lamp turns on at half-mast.

Smiling, Draco muses, “Turn the duvet green?”

Neville chuckles, but another flick of his wand, and Draco lifts up on his elbows to stare at his lovely, newly-emerald bed set. He wracks his mind for something else to order, anything, that will make him feel like he has magic again.

But in the end, he can’t think of anything, and he drops his head back into the pillows. He sighs contentedly and figures—knows—that Neville will be just as accommodating tomorrow. He glances up at Neville and breathes dreamily, “Make love to me?”

Neville doesn’t need to be told twice. Draco’s still dripping and ready from downstairs, and he parts his legs invitingly, running a hand down his stomach. Neville tosses his wand to the nightstand and crawls onto the bed like a predator. His hazel eyes burn into Draco’s whole being, and Draco watches back. Neville climbs gloriously onto him and settles in between his legs, and Draco parts his thighs as wide as they’ll go. He wraps his legs around Neville’s waist, wanting to pull Neville in, and transfers his hands from his own cock to Neville’s. Neville releases a sharp breath. Draco slides his hands up Neville’s smooth stomach, up Neville’s hard abs, up his strong shoulders and his neck and into his hair. He fists in Neville’s brown locks and brings Neville down for a hard, longing kiss. Neville’s lips are perfectly soft above him, perfectly warm, slightly wet, and Neville tilts his head just right. Their noses brush and Draco moans. Neville’s tongue comes out, absently swipes across Draco’s lips, and slips languidly inside. He traces Draco’s own tongue, Draco’s teeth, the roof of Draco’s mouth, and everything between. Draco lazily kisses back and tangles his tongue in Neville’s, not really fighting it so much as playing. They kiss and they kiss, and Draco strokes the side of Neville’s face and his dark hair. Neville caresses every part of Draco’s body, and Draco swells with warmth.

Neville’s perfect. He kisses perfect. He feels _right_ atop Draco—like he belongs there. He’s sturdy, but tender, brave but smart, calm but true. He’s the perfect, down-to-Earth, lion to Draco’s snake. Draco realizes, as they kiss and shares this moment, that being with Neville even makes _him_ feel like a better person. Like Neville’s good for him.

He stifles a bit of a giggle as he realizes that even his _mother_ agrees. Neville pulls back softly and nuzzles at the side of Draco’s face, smiling, “What?”

“Nothing,” Draco sighs in a near-whisper. “Just...” He rolls his eyes at himself and plays with Neville’s hair.

Neville seems to take it as just one of those Draco things that Draco does and kisses his cheek. Draco scrunches his eyes with his smile, and Neville runs his hands teasingly down Draco’s torso, making him arch and suck in breath. He tightens his thighs around Neville’s body and bucks his groin into Neville’s. Neville makes a short groan as his fingers reach Draco’s cock. Draco gasps instantly and thrusts into Neville’s hand.

“You’re perfect,” Neville mumbles against Draco, pressing in for more kisses that Draco happily basks in. Neville showers him with love and strokes his cock to hardness, which doesn’t take much effort. The feeling of Neville’s fingers on him always arouses him, and he was already half-there. It’s difficult to be anything but with a completely naked Neville stretched out above him.

Normally, Draco might protest with insecurity. But it’s his birthday, and he simply preens. Neville notices and worships Draco’s face and mouth with his tongue. Draco swells under the attention. Neville’s fingers trace lower, and Draco barely has time to moan when they leave his cock before they’re running under to slip between his cheeks. They slide over his already stretched and lubed hole, and Draco tries to press into them. This rubs their dicks together, and Draco’s happy to do that too. He tries to feel every curve and vein with his dick, while Neville kiss him senseless and plays with his hole. It’s everything and everywhere, and Draco’s head is swimming.

Neville pulls back slightly, and Draco tilts his head up, wanting to follow the kiss. Neville slips one finger gently inside him and Draco gasps. Neville pistons softly in and out, adding a second finger with relative ease, but still making Draco squirm. It doesn’t hurt, not wet and already prepared, but it makes him burn slightly and yearn for something bigger. Neville kisses the side of his face over and over and growls, “You’re beautiful.”

Draco’s breathing heavily and trails his hands down Neville’s neck, wanting to touch as much skin as possible. “N-Neville...”

“You’re smart,” Neville mumbles, voice deep and raw, kissing Draco’s ear. “You’re witty, you’re funny, and you’re fun.” He nibbles on Draco’s lobe, scissoring Draco apart, and Draco wants to press up so firmly he’ll melt them together. Pulling back to grin with eyes crinkled in delight, Neville mumbles with a bit of a laugh, “You keep my house so clean.” He’s grinning from ear to ear, and Draco smiles back. “You feed me, deliciously, too...”

“You take care of me,” Draco drawls, cutting in. “And you pet me, and you make me feel good, safe, and stable...” Things he thought he’d never say to anyone, but he can be open with Neville like he can’t to anyone else. He can _trust_ Neville. He can be playful, he can be snarky, he can be sweet, he can be mean. He can be himself, and there’s no greater aphrodisiac. Well, except being wanted. It’s only just past lunch, but it feels like night, and Draco wants Neville to stay in bed with him all through it, and all through the whole weekend. Draco wants to say more, but then Neville’s fingers are leaving him, and he’s too busy gasping with the loss. He turns his head in the pillows and scrunches his eyes, waiting for it to come. He bites his lip and just barely stifles the moan when he feels that familiar, spongy head nudge at his hole. He waits for it to push inside, but it doesn’t.

Draco crinkles his eyes open in annoyance, and Neville smiles back, kissing his eyelids. “Looked like you were going to say something else,” he mumbles. Draco sticks out his tongue, feeling childish and uncontrollably horny. He tries to shift his bum down onto Neville, but Neville grabs him quickly and holds him, kissing him again. Draco keeps his head to the side and melts into it.

He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t want to break the peace; he just wants to relax. Neville’s making him so relaxed he could burst. Neville must get the message, because the tip of his cock, torturously slowly, begins to push inside. Draco’s muscles only contract for a split second before he returns back to leisurely bliss. Neville continues to touch him everywhere with those rough hands and those soft lips. Draco relaxes and tries to pull his thighs back more, trying to give Neville more room. He wants Neville as far in as possible. He wants Neville fully inside him, filling him, making him complete. When the head pops inside, Draco makes a breathy gasp and tilts his forehead against Neville’s.

Neville grunts and keeps going. He pistons slightly, a little bit out, a lot in, getting further and further. It doesn’t hurt at all—not with how prepared and relaxed Draco is, although it does stretch him and make his walls twitch a bit at the invasion. It’s the familiar hypocrisy of feeling strange but feeling right. Draco’s sure, so sure, that he belongs here. Neville pushes until he’s fully seated inside, and Draco moans loudly. He throws his head back and tries to adjust, wriggling his ass around Neville’s hard, huge cock. He feels completely impaled, completely full. He shifts his legs up Neville’s torso, and Neville gets the hint, looping his arms under them, so that Draco’s knees bend over Neville’s shoulders. This gives Neville more room to push in, making Draco even fuller, and his eyes roll back, practically seeing stars already. His arms have fallen limply into the mattress, fingers fisting in the sheets. Neville bends back down to nuzzle into him and purr, “Say when.”

Draco doesn’t hesitate to gasp, “Wh... when...” And then he tries to thrust his hips up for emphasis. Neville grunts and begins to pull out.

Draco tries to look down. He tries to watch in awe as each wet centimeter pulls out of him, behind his own hard-as-hell cock, but it’s so hard to keep his neck craned back when Neville makes him so boneless. It’s hard to keep his eyes consistently open too, when his body’s being overrun with senses. When Neville’s almost all the way out, Draco’s empty hole twitches, and he longs for Neville to come back.

Neville doesn’t wait. He pushes inside again, quicker, sliding home and making Draco moan. Neville pulls out again, slower, and repeats. He adjusts his angle every time, rubbing new parts and manipulating Draco’s body. He hovers just over Draco as he does this, leaning down so that Draco’s knees are touching his shoulders, legs in the air above Neville’s back. Neville licks his ear when he tilts his head and whispers, “How do you want it?”

Draco grunts. He wants Neville. Just Neville. Neville continues to shallowly fuck him, slow and so much. Then Neville hits his prostate, and Draco arches with a soundless shriek, reaching to claw at the back of Neville’s neck. Stars erupt behind his eyes, and he just moans, “N-Neville...”

“How do you want it?” Neville repeats. He sounds breathless too, but trying to stay sane, deep and almost growling. “Slow, fast, hard...?” he hovers over Draco’s ear, laving it with his tongue. He purrs so sensually, “Tell me how you want me to make love to you...”

“Ohh... f... fuck...” Draco whimpers, holding on tightly, and grabs at Neville’s hair. He drags Neville in for a messy, full kiss, with lots of tongue and saliva. Draco’s whole body is beading in sweat, and Neville’s following suit, even though it’s still slow. Draco can’t talk with his mouth full of Neville, which is just as well. The downside is that Neville can’t talk either, and he’s so sexy...

Neville keeps a steady rhythm, hitting Draco’s prostate every time and sending waves of pleasure all over his body. It tingles all along his skin, twisting up every vein, fogging his head and curling his toes. Even gently and slowly, Neville fucks Draco’s brains out. He holds Draco’s hips and caresses his sides, and Draco’s hard cock grinds into Neville’s hard stomach. When Neville’s fingers slip between to wrap skillfully around Draco’s dick, Draco’s positive he’s died and gone to heaven. He relinquishes the kiss completely, and Neville takes over. Neville doesn’t dominate him so much as love him, worship him and do everything. Neville does everything for Draco. He fills Draco’s mouth, fills his body, strokes him and touches him. Neville sets him on fire, and Draco’s rocked into. Neville doesn’t slam into him like usual, or pound him into the bed, and he isn’t sliding up into the headboard. He’s rocked and filled and emptied again, and every in-between makes Draco long for the next thrust. When Neville parts the kiss, Draco won’t let him leave—he grabs Neville’s head and just holds Neville against him, forehead to forehead, nose to nose. He can feel Neville’s sugar-breath against his lips, and he closes his eyes. Neville’s heady scent washes over him. The sounds of sliding skin, of Neville’s hard breathing, of Draco’s heavy panting, fill the air. His mind is blank, and all of his blood rushes down to his impossibly hard cock, being lovingly squeezed by Neville’s fingers. His heart is beating impossibly fast in his chest, and he can feel Neville’s quick pulse under every finger. He doesn’t want this to end, not ever.

But it can’t last, of course. It’s too good, it’s too perfect. It’s too everything he’s ever wanted, too overwhelming, and Draco gasps for air, and Neville keeps fucking him slowly. Neville fists him gently, and thumbs his slit, and Neville’s other hand plays with his balls, gently rolling and kneading them. They’re quiet, though their heartbeats and breathing are loud. Neville moves in and out of Draco, Draco feels everything, all over. It builds in his head and it rushes down his body, until his muscles are tightening and his balls are constricting, and he opens his mouth uselessly; this is it, this is it. He wants to say Neville’s name, over and over again. He spasms in Neville’s hand and arches suddenly off the bed, breathing quickly in and out and tightening and finishing. His eyes roll up, stars come, his stomach fills with ecstasy and his veins erupt in rapture. His orgasm rips through him and wrenches out, and before he’s ready, he’s coming. He explodes between them, spraying all over both of their chests, and as he comes, he blissfully, brokenly breathes, _“I love you.”_

Neville pumps him gently out, getting it all, and Draco collapses back in the bed, feeling spent and utterly wonderful. He’s glowing. He knows his walls have tightened around Neville, because a moment later, Neville is spasming inside him, and Draco clenches his ass to make it better. He can feel Neville coming inside him, shooting everywhere, filling him up with cum. Neville stays seated while he does it and kisses Draco hard. Draco limply takes it. He can’t move. Neville ravishes him anyway, and Draco whimpers into it with pleasure, his arms slipping loosely in the sheets. He wishes he had the strength to hold Neville back. Instead, he lies still as Neville finishes, falling atop him heavily.

Neville pants for several minutes before rolling off and slipping out. Draco whimpers and can feel the cum dribble out of his stretched hole, and Neville stretches out beside him. Draco instantly curls into Neville, and Neville holds him warmly. They’re both sweaty, both breathing hard, both coming down and satiated. Neville kisses Draco’s cheek, and says, in no uncertain terms, “I love you too.”


	14. Chapter 14

It’s still dark when Draco hazily realizes he isn’t dreaming. His eyes flutter open in the blackness and he smacks his tongue—dry throat. That’s what woke him. He rolls a little over into the bed, bumping into a warm body. Neville makes a grunting sound, and Draco shuffles a little back. He can barely see Neville’s outline in the very thin, pale starlight, stretching through the dark curtains. Draco rolls the blanket off himself.

The smarter thing to do, probably, would be to get out at the end of the bed and walk around it. Neville’s the one on the door side and also the lamp side. But it’s late, and Draco’s too tired to bother. He climbs over Neville, doing his best not to wake Neville up, and secretly relishes in everywhere their skin touches. They sleep naked often. This makes it easier for Draco to wake up to a wonderful, bare embrace, and pick up quicker where they left off.

Draco stumbles across the floor, cutting through the darkness. He opens the door as quietly as possible and creeps down the equally dark hall, then down the dark stairs, then down another dark hall. The kitchen is a bit lighter—the blinds aren’t as effective as the curtains upstairs, and the glow of the street lamp outside cuts through the slats.

Draco fishes a glass out of the cupboards, feeling his way around, and gets himself a glass of water. He drinks it against the countertop and leaves the empty glass in the sink afterwards.

Then it’s back down the hall, back up the stairs, back across the hall and back through the left-open door. He closes it quietly behind himself and climbs back over Neville.

As Draco struggles to get the blankets right again, Neville rolls over and drapes an arm across his chest. Neville snuggles up to his side and murmurs quietly, “Wha’ was tha’ about?”

Draco grins, both at the touch and the sleep in Neville’s voice. “Went to get water,” Draco whispers. “...Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Neville yawns and mutters, “That’s alright.”

Draco leans his head against Neville’s and breathes in the faint remnants of lavender shampoo. He closes his heavy eyelids again, and he’s fully prepared to go back to sleep.

Then Neville mumbles, “Draco...?”

“Mm?”

Neville shifts a little against him, and Draco pulls the (now green) blankets a little higher. He rolls onto his side, partially to get a more comfortable angle and partially because it sounds like Neville has something to say. Neville’s arm stays loosely around him but slips lower, staying atop the blankets. It’s reassuring, and Draco can feel Neville’s breath on his face, even if he can’t see everything. Neville might be frowning. “I was just... thinking...”

When he pauses, Draco yawns, “Now? Should be sleeping.”

Neville makes a short laughing noise. “Well, no. Lately, in general. When I woke up and you weren’t here, just really made me think of it...”

Draco instantly dons a frown. “I was just getting water...”

“I know. I just... look, we don’t have to talk about this all right now. But now I’m awake, so... might as well.” The longer they stay up talking, the longer Draco can feel himself waking up. Which is ridiculous; judging from the lack of light, they should have plenty of time left to sleep.

But Neville seems troubled, so Draco drawls, “What is it?”

He can feel Neville breathing out heavily—it ghosts across his cheeks. Draco shuffles a bit closer, hands curled against Neville’s chest, trying to be comforting. “I’ve just... been wondering... well... what would happen if... if you got pardoned...”

Draco’s eyes widen in the blackness, his mouth falling open. His initial reaction is to jump back as if scalded, but since he’s lying down, he just goes rigid.

Neville must feel the reaction, because he says gently, “I’m just thinking about the general, distant future. Either way, you’ll get out eventually. I didn’t mean to worry you...”

“...If you didn’t want me anymore?” Draco’s throat is dry again.

Neville shifts in the mattress, and his silhouette lifts—he’s propping up on his elbow. Probably to get a better look at Draco, who feels like he’s been slapped. “What? No, I didn’t say that at all! You know I want you—”

“Then why would you get rid of me?”

“I’m not—! I’m not saying that, I just mean if you got out sooner than expected, or even _when_ you get out, and... and I’m not trying to make you leave...” He takes another breath as Draco shifts hopelessly, feeling conflicted and worried and like he _never, ever wants to leave Neville’s side._ Even before Azkaban, the world beyond the Manor and Hogwarts was hardly Azkaban, but when the war struck... When Neville continues his voice is deeper and softer, like he’s trying to soothe a wounded animal, which is often what Draco feels like. “...Look, what I’m really asking is... if you had the choice... if you could leave anytime—if I didn’t own you... would you still want to stay with me?”

Draco’s heart settles down a fraction while his body still shakes in the aftermath. He knows, logically, that he’s taking this the wrong way. But he can’t help it. The thought of leaving the sanctity of Neville’s house and the warmth of Neville’s arms is debilitating. He’s safe here, and accepted and loved, like he hasn’t been for a long time, maybe never had beyond his parents. Even if he weren’t a Death Eater, and he wouldn’t be shunned and blacklisted everywhere, he still wouldn’t want to have to find a job, and get a new house, and be with other people. He just wants to be right here. And honestly, he doesn’t care if it’s with a collar or not.

Draco thinks, ‘of course I’d stay,’ but somehow just nods, his throat dry again. He wonders if Neville can see it. Then thinks maybe not and mumbles a shaky, “Yes.”

Neville’s warm hand feels for Draco’s cheek, and Draco lifts his hand to help. Neville thumbs his face fondly and rolls in to kiss him on the forehead. Draco tilts his chin up, signaling he wants more. Neville takes the hint and their mouths come together. Draco, perhaps stupidly, wants to ask if Neville would want him, even if he weren’t owned. If he were free, and his usual, snarky, terrible self. At least, more so than usual. He becomes more of that every day. But he doesn’t want to ruin things, and suddenly Neville rolls them over, on top of Draco, under the blankets. He caresses Draco’s cheekbones lightly and whispers, “Would you still want me?”

Draco nods frantically, knowing that even if Neville can’t see it, he can probably feel it. “Of course. The sex is...” Draco’s eyelashes flutter in the memories as he searches for the right word. He practically moans, “fantastic.”

He knows, somehow, that Neville is smirking. Neville pecks him again, this time on the lips, and Draco tries to forget the minor argument. Or misunderstanding. Or whatever. Still, the thought makes him desperate. He isn’t so tired anymore and presses up into Neville’s body. Neville groans against his mouth, grinding back down.

Draco doesn’t let their lips separate again. Because he’d just say something stupid. It’s more than just sex. The panic subsides more at every touch, and Neville’s kiss turns slowly from gentle to fervent. Draco’s heartbeat doesn’t so much speed up as usual, because the worry already spiked it so high, but it does become more even. Less erratic. More relaxed. His skin warms, and he rubs all across Neville’s strong arms, up to his broad shoulders, down his rough shoulder blades. Neville’s skin is smooth and inviting. Neville smells so good, like always. He smells solid and sexy. Draco can feel Neville’s six-pack against his own flat stomach, and he can feel Neville’s growing erection against his inner thigh. Without parting their lips, Draco struggles under the sheets, trying to align them more so that their cocks brush. As soon as he manages, Draco has to break the kiss to moan. Neville takes the opportunity to suck on Draco’s neck, hopefully leaving marks.

So much for sleep. Draco can’t go back now, though. He’s too hot, and his blood’s rushing too fast. Neville smells too good, feels too good. Sometimes he wishes Neville didn’t have to work and they could just fuck all day. That would be amazing. Distracted and incoherent, Draco mumbles breathily, “N... Neville... could we... handcuffs...?” Because he’s been wanting to try that.

Neville kisses the side of his face hard enough that it forces Draco’s head to turn away, and he answers huskily, “Don’t need to tie you up.”

Draco attempts to roll his eyes but closes them instead when Neville’s hips deliver a particularly hard thrust, sliding their dicks together. He tries to moan, “Th... then... can I...?” A few seconds after, he realizes, despite what Neville insists, that that isn’t okay. He’s a prisoner; he can’t tie his master up. (He still wants to, though.) But, “I-I’ll behave... I swear...”

Neville smiles and presses a firm kiss to the top of his cheekbone. “I know you will.” He sighs and nuzzles into Draco’s blond hair.

Draco waits impatiently. He thrusts shallowly up into Neville as much as he can get away with and explores Neville’s toned back a little more. Grinning up at the dark ceiling, Draco muses, for probably the millionth time, on how much he lucked out. As Neville seems to ponder in his own space, Draco starts trailing light butterfly-like kisses all along the side of his face.

Then Neville grumbles, “Fine,” and rolls off Draco to reach for the nightstand. Draco bites his lip to stop himself from whining—the night air feels cold, now that he’s had Neville. Something clinks in the darkness—Neville’s using magic. The closet’s opening, maybe? Or a drawer, or something. Metal clicks together. A moment later, Neville’s beside Draco again and drops a heavy, icy object onto his chest.

Draco ‘oomph’s and picks up the handcuffs.

He can tell that’s what they are, even in the dark. He knows what they feel like. They feel sturdier and heavy-duty, and the metal’s thick. The sheets rustle as Neville stretches again, and Draco blinks rapidly as the light flickers just barely a quarter on. It’s still very dim. Just a small, orange glow. But it’s enough for Draco to see all of Neville, just like he likes.

Smiling indulgently, Neville settles into the middle of the bed, head in the pillows. He stretches his arms up, resting against the headboard. Draco licks his lips and stares.

Neville looks fucking _gorgeous._ His arms pull his muscles tight, and the pale light licks at his golden skin, and his hair is perfectly disheveled. He looks like a lounging supermodel or a satiated porn star. Draco ogles for a few seconds. He can’t help it. He licks his lips again at the sight of it all and gets ridiculously hard. Neville waits patiently, and then Draco realizes he can stare after the handcuffs are on too, and that’s half the point.

A few shaky breaths. He’s really going to do this. Draco’s nervous fingers flex over the metal rings, shifting anxiously, still not sure this is really _okay._ But he wants to. He doesn’t even know why. He wants to do everything with Neville—every horrible, nasty, kinky thing he can think of, and then some. He’d rather Neville tie him up, but he’ll take this. Draco’s very hesitant when he finally moves forward, and Neville, helpfully, keeps his hands still.

Draco’s careful not to pin skin as he clamps the first ring shut around Neville’s left wrist, then moves it underneath the matters, looping around a board in the box spring and catching Neville’s right wrist. The clipping noise they make when they shut makes Draco jump a little. Once they’re on, Neville tugs experimentally and nods.

Draco crawls back to the middle of the bed and promptly stretches a leg across Neville’s stomach, straddling him. Draco leans forward and kisses Neville warmly, unable to contain his grin.

He wants to say, ‘thank you,’ for everything. For the trust, and the small bit of power, and the absolutely amazing sex. Instead, he just kisses Neville again and again. He could kiss Neville all day. Neville has no choice but to kiss back, and Draco runs his fingers through Neville’s soft hair, sort of wishing he could feel Neville reciprocate. Instead, he just ravishes Neville’s head with his tongue and his hands.

If Draco had more time, more will power, he’d want to draw this out. He’d kiss every centimeter of Neville’s body, mouth every part, feel every crevice. He’d map it all out and revel in it all. But he’s too hard for that, and he just starts trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down Neville’s chin, throat, collarbone. He crawls down Neville’s body, scooting back and scrunching blankets up to the end of the bed. They can’t use a lube spell now that Neville’s hands are tied, and Draco can’t be bothered to go find a physical bottle. He should still be a little stretched and wet from earlier, anyway. That’s the good thing about constant sex; it makes more sex easier. Sex begets sex. Draco’s body is on fire with the promise of more, and when he gets the chance, he dips his tongue into Neville’s navel.

Draco laves large, wet strokes across Neville’s stomach for no particular reason. He just wants to taste Neville. Neville tastes sort of salty and intensely addictive. Draco can smell the musk in the air as he gets closer to his target, and he drags his tongue lower, eyes flickering up to watch Neville’s dilated, half-lidded ones.

Neville’s cheeks are slightly flushed and his lips are slightly parted. His breath hitches when Draco reaches what he wants. Draco licks right down Neville’s thick curls, right up his shaft, and keeps his mouth open to pop it over the head of Neville’s cock. It’s sticking straight up, and Draco hovers atop it, hands holding Neville’s hips down. This isn’t supposed to be a blow-job. He just needs it wet. And he has to be quick or he’ll explode against the sheets, where he’s trying to resist rubbing himself into the mattress. Draco’s never been good at self-control. He wants to gag himself on Neville’s huge dick and whimpers pathetically around it. Breathing out through his nose, Draco slowly moves down, tongue straining to work against the bottom. He only gets about halfway onto it before he starts to bob up and down, sucking gently as he goes. Neville’s breath hitches overhead, and his hips try to buck up under Draco’s fingers. Draco holds Neville firm and tries to coat it in as much saliva as possible. When Draco pulls off after a moment, there’s a wet popping sound. Draco bites his lip as he looks at it.

He can’t help himself; he rubs his face against Neville’s dick. It gets his own saliva on his cheek, but he just can’t help it. Afterwards, he has to lick it again, and this time he stays off, covering as much as he can on the outside. Neville squirms beneath him and moans. Draco stops only to stuff two fingers in his own mouth, and Neville moans louder as he watches Draco suck on them. Then Draco runs them down his body, between his own legs, past his own cock, so he can finger his own hole while he nuzzles into and laps at Neville’s cock. He starts to finger himself impatiently, wincing when he stabs inside his tight hole. He doesn’t stop, though. He pistons one finger in and out before adding another too quickly. When Neville’s dick is as wet as it’ll probably get, and Draco’s hole still needs a bit more stretching, Draco lowers his head to suck on Neville’s balls in the meantime. He swallows them into his mouth and fucks himself with his fingers over and over. Even without Neville touching him and speeding it up, Draco can hardly wait.

Draco’s quivering with the need to come, and he doesn’t wait until he’s properly prepared. He stops when it’s simply too much, and he forces himself to take his fingers out and climb back to his knees. Neville’s now breathing very heavily, and Draco shifts to straddle his chest again. Except this time, Draco stays hovering in the air, knees to either side of Neville’s hips, pressed into the mattress, lifted just above Neville’s dick. Draco grabs Neville’s tip to hold it steady and uses two fingers to stretch his own hole. He doesn’t look at Neville while he lines them up, because that’ll make him burst.

Instead, he takes a few steady breaths before dropping himself down.

Neville instantly howls, but not as loud as Draco. Draco screams as Neville’s thick cock shoots straight up inside him, up his tight channel, impossibly far already and much too fast. If they hadn’t fucked earlier, it would’ve probably split Draco open. Gravity and Draco’s own weight holds him down with crushing pressure, and Neville makes him so full that he slumps forward, hands on Neville’s chest. He looks down at Neville, panting. Neville’s face is scrunched up in ecstasy, teeth grit. Draco, like every time, squirms, and marvels at how insanely big it is. He throws his head back as he tilts his hips, adjusting to the feeling. Even if he were pardoned, and even if he didn’t love Neville, he could never be with anyone else.

There’s just no one that can fill him like Neville can, in both the mental and this very _physical_ sense of the word. Looking down at Neville makes it even better. Neville’s spread out, on display, just for Draco. He can’t move, and he can’t do anything but look, and it looks too good.

Draco tries, on trembling arms, to lift up again. He falls back a second later, gasping as he’s re-impaled. Neville’s cock hits that spot that makes Draco arch and see stars, and he nearly convulse in pleasure. It’s too much. Neville’s so big; he’s pressed tightly against it, rubbing it with every twitch. Draco wants to keep going, wants to keep fucking himself on Neville’s huge dick but can’t help it. He leans down, still stuffed full of cock, and goes in for a messy kiss. Neville kisses back, just as wonderful as ever.

Before Draco pulls away, Neville grunts, “...I can’t believe you tied me up... just to be on the bottom again...”

“Shut up,” Draco moans, halfway between a pained sneer and a rapturous grin. Trust a simplistic Gryffindor to confuse topping with power. “I love riding your cock.” He wiggles his hips as he says it, thrusting shallowly forward, like riding a toy horse. Gasping and moaning the whole way. Neville would be such a big, strong, powerful horse, and just as hung. Draco’s greedy mind quickly flutters through fantasies of Neville fucking him on the floor of the Malfoy Manor stables, or over the gate, tied up in riding gear, with his tight riding trousers pulled down to his knees, and Neville holding a riding crop. Then it warps, as fantasies often do, into a cage at the zoo, where Draco’s chained, waiting for his master to come and feed him and fuck him. Then Draco just generally thinks about being on his knees and sucking Neville’s cock: in the middle of his Auror office, or out in his garden, or anywhere at all. Draco ruts as he imagines it, and his head jerks up when the chains rattle.

Neville’s straining against his bonds, and he growls beautifully, “Fuck, I wish I could touch you. Want to grab your pretty hips and pick you up and down, fuck you properly...”

Draco bites his lip, and he obediently sits up and drops down again. He doesn’t want to untie Neville, not yet. Even though he loves Neville’s hands on him. Instead, he tries to be good, tries to behave, and starts moving more. Up, down. Faster, harder. He bounces up and down on Neville’s cock, bangs falling into his eyes and cock hitting his stomach, and he keeps his hands on Neville’s chest to keep himself steady. If he tried to touch himself, he’d lose balance. That’s what Neville should be for. Fuck, he wants Neville touching him. He wants to touch Neville, hold those strong shoulders, weave through that silky hair... instead, he just looks and thinks of it, getting harder and harder.

Getting more and more into it, Draco’s mouth has to stay open; air’s too hard to take in. He throws his head back and closes his eyes after a minute, bouncing wildly, as fast as he can. Then he wants to see Neville and looks back down, and he tilts forward, palms sliding up Neville’s chest, fingertips stopping right before his collarbone. Draco uses his thighs and his hips to keep going, and he pistons himself onto Neville’s mammoth cock, and Neville’s hips keep rutting up to try and meet him. The room is thick with wet sounds, and Draco feels like he’s a mess. He’ll be too sore to sit tomorrow. Just the way he likes it. He’ll sit on Neville’s cock again though, because that burn is always worth it...

“Fuck,” Neville swears, when Draco has to stop for a few seconds and struggle to breathe. Neville tries to keep thrusting up, and Draco tries limply to accommodate, picking up again. “Don’t stop, yesss... harder...” Draco’s going as hard as he can, but he knows that if Neville were able to help it’d be more intense. He still doesn’t want to do that, though. A part of him doesn’t want to relinquish power too early, and a part of him doesn’t want to spoil the fun. Draco’s draping forward without realizing it.

When he just _has_ to, Draco bends down, and it shifts the angle. It’s not as good, it can’t go as far, can’t be as deep, but Draco has to put their lips together. Neville’s too handsome to go un-ravished. Flattening their sweaty, bare stomachs together again, Draco fervently kisses Neville, sloppy and open-mouthed. He can feel Neville’s legs drawing up and hitting the back of his sore ass but doesn’t stop thrusting. With the new leverage, Neville suddenly uses his knees to buck his hips up into Draco, and Draco cries out with the new force. Neville takes control all over again, even without his hands, and bucks zealously upwards, again and again, sending Draco bouncing in the air. Draco doesn’t have to do anything anymore. He just lies still and lets Neville do the work—lets Neville fuck him. Just the way he likes. Draco’s fingers slip into Neville’s hair, his tongue in Neville’s mouth, and their nipples are rubbing and Draco’s cock is slapping Neville’s stomach with each thrust. His head’s a complete cloud. The lust is running through his veins like molten lava, and Draco whimpers as the pleasure pools in his chest.

He pulls back to bury his head in Neville’s shoulder, hands moving to fist against Neville’s stomach, as it gets too be too much. He gasps, _“N-Neville...”_ and then his balls tighten, and then that’s it.

An Earth-shattering orgasm hits him like a blow to the head, and he arches back and he cries out as he comes. He doesn’t even need to touch himself; his dick goes off like a volcano and paints all over their stomachs, twitching its release out. Neville keeps pounding into him, and Draco can feel his ass squeezing tighter around Neville’s cock in jerky spasms that make him whine aloud. Neville’s groaning in ecstasy above him. “ _Draco..._ ”

Neville comes a moment later, deep inside Draco, but he thrusts it all out so that it gets everywhere. Draco can feel it dribbling down Neville’s dick and slicking his crack, a bit sliding under and reaching his balls. Neville keeps going for a few thrusts, coming more and more. Then they begin to taper off, shallower and slower, until Neville finally stops, hips stilling in the bed.

Draco’s already collapsed, head pillowed on Neville’s warm shoulder, and feeling ridiculously satiated and monstrously tired.

It takes him a minute to remember that Neville’s still tied up. Then he mumbles sleepily, “That was amazing.” Then he blushes, because that wasn’t what he meant to say.

“Yeah,” Neville chuckles, sounding just as happy and tired.

Draco’s still panting a little and tries again, “How do I untie you?”

“The button’s on the sides,” Neville says, “It’s easy. They’ll only come off for whoever put them on, though, unless you have a Ministry override.”

Draco’s chest has butterflies in it. He isn’t sure why Neville trusts him so much, (perhaps because the collar would stop him from doing any real damage) but he appreciates it. He takes another moment, just relaxing, enjoying the feeling of still being full, and completely touching, before shifting to reach for the handcuffs. He finds the little buttons Neville must mean pretty easily and pushes them, and they unclick with a clinking sound.

Neville’s hands instantly slide out, and he wraps his arms around Draco tightly. Draco tosses the handcuffs off the bed.

Neville shifts slightly so that his cock pulls out, and Draco mewls at the sudden emptiness and the wet trail left behind. Neville kisses his cheek and rolls them over, so that Draco’s back is in the mattress again, and Neville’s draped over him like the perfect blanket. He adjusts and settles in, as though he’s going to fall asleep just like that.

Draco’s okay with that.

Neville whispers in his ear, “I want to keep you forever.”

And Draco feels blissful.


	15. Chapter 15

Draco opens the window just long enough to let Chirdy in before quickly slamming it shut behind her. The rain berates against the glass loudly, and Chirdy indignantly shakes the water out of her feathers, splattering all over the small round table in the corner of the kitchen. The letter she drops is dry—at least Neville thought to use a charm on it. (He often forgets his rain charms, and once or twice, Draco’s caught him out in the garden, soaking wet. It’s always an inner debate whether or not to mention it—on the one hand, it’s cruel to let Neville suffer in the rain unnecessarily when they _are_ wizards. On the other hand, Neville in a wet shirt is a very welcome sight.)

When Chirdy’s sufficiently dried off (and effectively soaked their table) she flutters off for the living room. Draco gets a towel from the bathroom and wipes up the table, opening the letter after.

It’s from Neville, as they usually are. Apparently, he’s coming home an hour early, and Draco should prepare a large, nice dinner. For what exactly, the letter doesn’t mention. Fuel for something more exciting, perhaps? Draco childishly daydreams romantic settings and wild household adventures, even though it isn’t any particularly special day (just a regular Thursday) and heads to the fridge. What to make, what to make? Quiche, he decides. He makes an excellent quiche. It’ll be made even more excellent by the fact that most of his ingredients are homegrown, and Neville is an excellent gardener. The flavours are so much more vibrant when the vegetables are fresh. He’ll make a salad too, perhaps. And a dessert? Or maybe Neville’s bringing the dessert.

Or maybe Neville’s the dessert.

Draco smiles to himself as he pulls out the cutting board, humming vacantly. Chirdy flits around the background, and Draco doesn’t have the heart to send her back out—not in this storm. His eagle owl at the manor could’ve handled it, but Chirdy’s not nearly so strong and determined. She seems quite happily to peck at the couch, fly back and forth across the hall, and ultimately come to rest atop Draco’s shoulder. He’s careful not to dislodge her as he works, cracking eggs into bowls.

* * *

Draco finishes a good twenty minutes before Neville’s imminent arrival and uses that time to fish through clothes in his building closet. He still doesn’t have anything striking, but the collection’s getting better. And he looks good in most things. He’s trying to decide between a blue turtleneck and a grey button-down when the perfect idea strikes him—why should he need a shirt at all?

A bit of rustling around produces the black leather pants he arrived in, since washed and rarely worn. They’re still the sexiest thing Draco has, and as he zips them up, he walks to the bathroom. He examines himself in the mirror and combs down his hair.

He might not have the six-pack Neville does, but he’s still shapely, in his own way. He’s begun to fill out again, although he’s still thin and pallid. Not sickly pale, anymore, at least, just... moon-kissed pale. His pink nipples stand out against his chest, and Draco strikes a few poses, trying to confirm that he looks as good as he wants to. He mostly does. He’d sleep with him. ...Well, no he wouldn’t; he’s not his type. But he’d expect anyone else to.

The quiche is still cooling atop the oven when he returns to the kitchen, and the last steps are to mix the salad and administer the dressing. Draco sets the table while he waits for the door to open, bare feet cold against the linoleum tile. He doesn’t let Chirdy back on his shoulder—her talons wouldn’t do well against just his skin. When she realizes this, she disappears upstairs somewhere. Which is good. Because he doesn’t want to completely steal her innocence with the way he intends to greet their master.

When it’s only minutes away, Draco kneels down in front of the door, smoothing down his pants and making sure they ride as low down his hips as possible. A little bit of blond hair peeks over the front, and the top of his ass probably shows around the back. Perfect. Draco plays with poses as he waits for Neville. When he can hear Neville coming up the steps, Draco presses his forehead to the floor in a complete bow, wishing he’d thought to bring his leash again. Instead, he just waits while the door opens.

Then he lifts back to his knees slowly, eyes smoldering as sensually as possible. Neville looks shocked already, and his blush makes Draco smirk.

While Neville shuts the door, Draco crawls forward on all fours. He nuzzles his face into Neville’s crotch, breathing in the musky, deep scent, and then he licks up the front, purring, “I made dinner. ...and I can’t wait for the _dessert_...”

Neville mumbles thickly, “Draco, get up,” sounding both turned on and amused.

Glancing up, Draco slowly climbs to his feet with as much grace as possible. He wraps his arms around Neville’s neck, kisses Neville’s cheek, and doesn’t stop even though Neville’s wet. Forgot the umbrella charm, again, just like Draco knew he would. The house is protected against Apparation—a Death Eater precaution. Perhaps Neville isn’t used to not being able to cut out the rain exposure entirely. Draco doesn’t complain, even though Neville’s a little cold, because his shirt clings to his pecs and it’s hot.

Draco slips Neville’s robes off his shoulders, and Neville lets them fall, dripping and heavy, to the floor. His brown hair is plastered against his forehead. He kisses Draco back for a few seconds before muttering softly, “The dinner’s not for me.”

Draco pulls back enough to look at him, eyebrows knitting together. A spike of anxiety knots in his chest—they still haven’t had anyone over. Who’s coming over? Not Neville’s friends, surely—Neville wouldn’t make him cook for Weasley or Potter, right? The stress must show on his face, because Neville shakes his head quickly.

“Don’t worry, you’ll like them.” That’s unlikely; there are very few people Draco’s ever liked.

“Who is it? I’ll have to change—what should I wear?”

Neville rolls his eyes and pecks Draco again lightly. “Anything—you look good in everything.”

Draco shakes his head furiously. “No, it matters. I don’t want to dress up for Granger or something, but if it’s your boss, I should wear something formal...” Draco trails off—he’ll need time to change. When is this dinner, anyway? Thank Merlin Neville didn’t come home with them...

“Well, if you must know and spoil the surprise,” Neville says quietly, smiling, “...it’s your parents.”

Draco’s too shell-shocked to move, even when Neville shuffles around him and walks him back into the wall. Draco goes easily, staring wide-eyed into Neville’s hazel irises. “My... my parents...?”

“Mhm,” Neville nods and goes in for another kiss, pressing the back of Draco’s head gently against the wall. Draco shakily tries to respond but is mostly too distracted.

As soon as Draco’s lips are free again, he confirms, “They’re coming? When?”

“They’re coming for dinner and should be here in an hour. So you should have time to change...” Draco dodges the next kiss. His temperature has suddenly skyrocketed. He’s feeling frantic. He hasn’t seen them since... since...

“I have to get ready.”

Neville looks put-out but mumbles, “Alright,” like he understands.

Draco ends up slamming his lips back into Neville’s, anyway. He does have an hour, and suddenly he doesn’t know if he can make it up the stairs—his knees are weak. Neville’s bringing him his parents. Neville, once again, has completely given Draco all he ever thought he could ask for, all without being asked. And this time it isn’t even his birthday. Neville’s bringing a known convict into his home, two people who heavily aided the Dark Lord’s rise, and he still tells Draco with a smile. There’s a swelling cloud of emotion in Draco’s chest too fierce to tame. He kisses Neville desperately, tightens his arms around Neville’s broad shoulders, and pulls Neville’s cold, wet chest against his own warm, naked one. He wants to shower Neville in ecstasy, just like Neville does to him.

And then he wants to go upstairs and change into his best clothes and dress Neville too, and groom them both and make everything perfect. He hopes his father likes the quiche. It’s his mother’s recipe. He should’ve made something grander. He should’ve made more. He pulls back just long enough to scowl, “You should’ve told me about this earlier!” There’s so much to do.

Mainly: thank Neville. Neville shrugs sheepishly and mumbles, “Sorry—I thought it’d be a nice surprise.” Then his grin twitches wider, and he adds, “I didn’t think there’d be a nice surprise waiting for me in return...”

“It wouldn’t have been if I knew my parents were coming.”

Neville scrunches up his face. “Damnit. Can I still have it?”

Draco kisses him for an answer. He deserves thanking properly, after all, and Draco’s so full of love right now that he wants to rip all of Neville’s clothes off. He’s never wanted to be with anyone so badly before, and when they part, Draco hisses, “We have to be fast,” and resumes kissing.

Neville must take the hint, because he suddenly grabs Draco by the hips and slams him hard into the wall, hoisting him up, and Draco, with a squeak, quickly wraps his legs around Neville’s waist. Neville grinds against him and shoves down the top of the leather, and they make out the whole time like the horny teenagers they could’ve been. When Neville rolls the trousers up enough, and Draco’s bare bottom rubs against Neville’s wet crotch, Draco gasps loudly. He’s holding on to Neville tightly. He doesn’t want to fall. Neville’s fingers run between his cheeks, and Draco purrs between kisses, “N-no time... just use a spell...”

Neville nods, and one hand retracts, returning a minute later. Neville finds Draco’s hole with one finger and teases it gently, before the hard tip of a wand presses against it. A muttered spell later and Draco’s arching, gasping and stretched, full of a warm liquid and wishing he was full of more. His fingers dig into Neville’s back—willing more. It doesn’t take much to get hard like this. Neville’s warming up. He looks so good, feels so good, and he gently moves to finger Draco, careful as always.

Draco moans into it and slips one hand down Neville’s front. He fiddles to get the zipper down and pull out Neville’s hard, huge cock, and it’s difficult with so little space between them. Draco tries to stroke Neville while Neville fingers him, trying to keep the heat up, trying to keep it quick, trying to keep the contact. And he just generally loves having Neville in his hand. His thumb brushes over the leaking tip, and his fingers squeeze over veins. Neville groans in his ear, grinding hard.

“You are so amazing to come home to,” Neville hisses, lifting him up. He holds Draco hovering over his cock, and Draco’s hands return to Neville’s shoulders to steady himself. He wants Neville inside him so badly he almost can’t stand it, and as soon as his parents leave, he’s going to push Neville down and fuck, and fuck, and fuck, and _make love._ Maybe even right over the dinner table, as soon as the door closes behind them. Waiting is torture.

Fortunately, Neville doesn’t take long. He kisses Draco’s cheek, as if to say ‘relax.’ But Draco can’t relax—he’s in the midst of bliss. He braces himself. Neville shoves his hips down and thrusts up, and Draco shrieks and arches, body burning up. Neville’s thick cock thrusts all the way up inside him—no time to piston in bit by bit. It parts his walls and hits the perfect spot. His nails dig into Neville’s shirt. They should’ve dried up first. They’ll need to fix everything, anyway. They should shower. But Draco doesn’t want to move, other than just up and down. 

It’s hard to move himself against the wall. He can only just keep hold of Neville. Neville does the work, and he half moves Draco and half moves himself, erratic and awkward. But still perfect, like always. When Neville slides out, Draco groans, when Neville slams back in, he howls, and Neville kisses him hard and swallows it all. He’s trembling both with the effort to defy gravity and the pure pleasure. Neville tastes like coffee. Little beads of rain water and sweat trickle down out of his hair and dampen Draco’s bangs—they’re pressed so close together. Draco can feel all of Neville’s muscles through his shirt. If only they had time to undress. Draco’s so close to the edge already. Neville pounds him into the wall, hitting that spot over and over. Draco writhes and begs and clutches. “N-Neville...”

“You’re so hot,” Neville tells him, through panting and kisses and general fucking. “Love you so much.”

Draco whines pathetically, because he’s too heady for coherency. He should be pressing into the wall to stay up. Instead, he presses into Neville as hard as he can, and Neville grinds back into him, crushing everything together. Draco can feel Neville’s nipples through his wet shirt, and every time they rub Draco’s, it sends a spark down his spine. He’s already wracked with pleasure. Up and down, up and down, making out the whole time and fiery and _wanting this._ Neville fucks him senseless.

Draco knows this needs to be quick. But he still doesn’t want it to be. When Neville fists his cock, his long, talented, garden-calloused fingers stroking up and down Draco’s straining member, it’s absolutely too much. Draco shrieks, “ _Neville!_ ” And he comes in droves. He throws his head back, skull hitting the wall, and he pushes forward, and Neville groans, draping over him. He fucks it out, bouncing Draco up and down like he weighs nothing.

Neville finishes a moment later, making Draco shiver with the sensation of being filled with warm cum. He clenches around Neville, wanting to hold onto it all, and Neville moans in response. Neville’s kisses turn lazy, hands loving.

Neville slumps them down, slowly, sliding Draco down the wall, until Neville’s sitting and Draco’s in his lap, legs still bent around his body. Draco holds him tight.

They stay in a satiated heap for a few minutes, before Neville mumbles, “We should clean up.”

Draco drawls, “You forgot the umbrella spell.” He’s too happy to really put the proper scolding into it, but Neville chuckles anyway, pecking him on the cheek.

“Sorry. I had other things on my mind.”

Draco’s swelling with emotion. His head hasn’t come down at all—it’s just switched from fierce rapture to rippling anticipation. Because he doesn’t want to cry, he tries to laugh, “Don’t embarrass me.” He grins.

Neville grins back. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Chirdy soars down the stairwell, chirping loudly to remind them to move.


	16. Chapter 16

Draco’s collar doesn’t bother him. It’s become sort of a kinky symbol of ownership, and he doesn’t at all mind belonging to Neville. But that doesn’t mean he’s ready for his parents to see it. He wears a black turtleneck sweater to cover it up and dark jeans. They’ve pulled the table more into the center of the room, and Neville’s transfigured two extra chairs from footstools in the garden. Draco’s made him put flowers in a nice pot in the center, picked especially out of his greenhouse. The greenhouse mimics the weather like the Great Hall’s ceiling used to in Hogwarts, but Draco’s had Neville clear it into sunshine; the heavy rain is too depressing.

Draco’s setting the table when he hears the knock, and he has to force himself not to scramble for the door. That would be undignified. He walks a little faster past Neville as Neville exits the kitchen, though. He wants to answer it.

He unhooks the metal lock and twists the handle with trembling fingers. He isn’t going to hug them right away. He’s not going to be a mess. He pulls the door open.

His mother lunges into his arms so fast he nearly topples over, and she practically sobs, “Draco!” delightedly into the side of his face. She pulls back to scatter kisses all over his cheeks, and his father steps inside behind her, closing the door.

“Mother—” Draco mumbles with a hint of annoyance in his voice. He’s been dying to see her, of course, but she’s embarrassing him in front of Neville. He’s kindly quiet in the background, until Draco’s mother pulls back to move on to him, and Draco’s father steps up. He opens his arms a little stiffly, grinning in that thin way of his. Draco practically beams. He sighs, “Father,” and steps in for another embrace.

Draco’s father holds him back tenderly. Neither of them are as sturdy or reserved as they once were. It’s warm though, and wondrous—the best hug Draco’s ever had. He never thought he’d get to hold his father again, and they don’t separate until his mother gently tugs them apart. Draco missed how she greeted Neville, but his father extends a hand. “Mr. Longbottom,” he says evenly.

Neville takes the hand just as surely, but Draco knows him well enough to see the slight trepidation on his face. It doesn’t seem like a match that could work—a Gryffindor war hero and an infamous Slytherin Death Eater, but Neville weathers it for Draco, and that means the world. There’s a short, strong handshake, followed by, “Mr. Malfoy.”

Then Draco’s father adds with a smooth expression, “I can’t thank you enough.” Draco smiles between them, and Neville mirrors it.

“Don’t mention it,” Neville says, and he smiles at Draco’s mother before she can jump in. “Anyway, Draco made an excellent dinner. Please come in...?” He turns hesitantly and walks to the living room—Draco’s father immediately follows.

Draco moves to do so, but his mother grabs his wrist and hisses quietly to him, “He’s gotten so handsome!”

Draco blushes and prays Neville didn’t hear that. He nods and whispers, “I know.”

“He’s a good catch,” she says, raising her eyebrows expectantly.

His blush deepens and he borderline scowls. “Mother!”

“I’m just saying!” She puts her hands up and walks over to the living room. Draco waits a minute for his cheeks to return to their normal shade before following.

To be honest, Draco didn’t really know how his parents would react to Neville. Before, he would’ve thought not well. Now that Neville’s done so much for them, he knew that would have to change at least a little. He just didn’t quite expect it to be so much. It’s almost too perfect, he thinks, as he pulls out his chair to sit down between Neville and his father, across from his mother. She says cheerfully, “It looks lovely, darling.”

“Thank you,” Draco drawls. “If I’d known you were coming, I would’ve made something more suitable.” And he has to resist glaring at Neville, because that’s just part of their dynamic, but not good to demonstrate to his parents.

“I tried to surprise him,” Neville says quickly, looking a little uncomfortable.

Draco’s father drawls regally, “It looks perfect.”

Draco smiles broadly. “Thank you. It’s mother’s recipe.”

Then he moves as if to start serving them, but Neville gets to the knife first. He carves out an even slice of quiche for his own plate, and then he catches Draco’s half-look-of-horror, half-glare and mumbles, “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Draco tells his parents, shaking his head, “His manners are...” Then he cuts himself off. He doesn’t want to insult Neville in front of guests. He looks back at Neville awkwardly.

His mother laughs, “It’s quite alright,” and begins to carve out her own piece. She also serves Draco’s father, who doesn’t look particularly put out either. They probably know that Neville isn’t as aristocratic as them, but Draco still just barely manages to stifle his groan when Neville takes a bite before they’re done serving themselves.

Draco serves himself last and tries to pretend that the order’s not all off. After his first bite of quiche, Draco’s father says, “This is delicious, Draco.”

Draco says, “Thank you,” and tries not to preen. Praise from his father has always done wonders to his mood.

Eating with them again does wonders for his mood. It’s almost like it used to be, aside from the addition of Neville. It’s almost as if everything bad never happened, and everything good still happened. Draco misses the manor terribly, but his parents are the important part. He would’ve had to move out eventually. Not seeing them for so long broke him, and he never before appreciated just how wonderful it is just having them around. Looking up to see his mother’s bright face and glancing sideways to see his father enjoying his food puts butterflies in Draco’s stomach. He looks at Neville last, trying to say thank you with his eyes.

Neville smiles softly back and eats mostly in silence.

A few bites in, Draco’s mother asks, glancing behind herself, “You seem to have quite the garden out there—is it a greenhouse?”

Neville thankfully finishes chewing before he answers, “I try to make it like one. Mostly just enchantments, though. The lot is just a regular backyard.”

“Are those Suoiciled Seirrebwarts?” Now she’s practically leaning over her chair, peering around things. The living room isn’t that large and gives a good view through the sliding glass doors. Neville follows her gaze with a grin.

“Yes, actually.”

“Lovely,” Draco’s mother muses. “It’s too bad about this dreadful weather, but good to see you’ve got it all controlled in there. Are you very interested in gardening?”

“I majored in Herbology,” Neville explains. “I find plants fascinating.”

Smiling sweetly, she insists, “You simply must come to the manor sometime. I’ve been tending to the gardens lately, trying to get them back to the way they were before... well, you know. I’m sure we must have something of interest to you. Have you any Sprekaeliaris? They’d look lovely over in the corner by the Alihotsy.”

Neville flushes slightly. “No, I haven’t.”

“You should come take some! They’re such a beautiful addition to any collection.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly take those. They’re incredibly rare.”

“Don’t think of it!” She waves her hand dismissively. “It’s the least we could do after everything you’ve done for us. Now say you’ll come by or I’ll have a sapling owled to you.”

Neville says, “Alright,” with red cheeks and a restrained smile that looks like it wants to split his face. This dinner is all repressed smiles. Everyone’s trying to be dignified, and everyone’s so happy they could burst. Or at least, that’s what Draco feels like. Draco wants to hug his mother. “Thank you. I mean it.”

“Don’t mention it.” And she goes back to eating quietly, stealing little, adoring looks at Draco every so often. Draco tries not to stare at her as much or sideways at his father. They both take healthy portions of both salad and quiche, and Draco wishes he’d made a dessert. A small cake or something. Or that they had champagne instead of just water. He wouldn’t serve them firewhisky, of course, which is the only alcohol Neville has. Next time, he’ll have to give Neville a shopping list beforehand.

There’ll have to be a next time. Even if it seems like no one has anything to say, that’s only because there’s _so much_ to say and nowhere to begin. Or maybe everyone’s just trying to look as put-together as Draco is. He could easily fall apart like this. After another few moments of almost-silence, filled with forks clinking against plates, Draco’s mother sighs, “Draco, you look absolutely fantastic.”

Draco tries not to blush and mumbles, “Thank you, Mother.”

“I mean it. I’m sure you were just as skinny and tired-looking as your father when he first came out, but now you look bright and healthy. Just like you always did.” She smiles fondly, but it makes Draco uncomfortable to think of his father weakened or even himself the way he was immediately after Azkaban. To make it worse, she turns to Neville, and she actually places a hand over his left one, resting against the table. “Thank you for looking after him.”

Somewhere along the lines, she seems to have forgotten that Neville didn’t technically rescue him, Neville _bought_ him. Turning pink, Draco doesn’t correct her, and Neville, looking just as uncomfortable, doesn’t either. After a minute, he settles on, “He does look good.” And then he blushes heavily and quickly pulls his hand away, returning to eating.

Draco’s mother chuckles and adds, “Well, of course he does.” She winks at Draco, which is horribly embarrassing.

“Narcissa,” Draco’s father steps in lightly, but he’s grinning in mild amusement.

“I’m sorry,” she sighs. “I can’t help it. I know you’re a man now, but you’ll always be my baby.”

“Mother.” She’s making it worse.

She shakes her head and returns to eating. Draco’s father comes to the rescue by clearing his throat, and he asks neutrally, “So, Draco, what have you been up to?”

Cooking, cleaning, and mostly either having sex with Neville or wanting to have sex with Neville. So basically, nothing more than he ever did—aside from schoolwork during Hogwarts and survival strategies after. Draco doesn’t want to say that, obviously. But he can’t really think of anything else to say, and he’s left in a sort of in-between space. He isn’t ashamed of his life exactly, but impressing his father has always been top priority. Eventually, Draco settles on, “...Reading,” because it’s semi-truthful.

His father nods as though this is perfectly acceptable, and he eats the last piece of quiche on his plate. He begins on the salad, and Draco wonders how to return the question. He’s had letters from them, of course. But it isn’t the same.

“How have the two of you been?” He takes a sip of water after asking.

Draco’s mother looks fondly at his father and says, “Oh, you know. Mostly fixing up the manor. Your father’s been looking into what sort of work he can do now—I think he’s bored.”

“I just want to be useful,” he tells her evenly. Then he raises a hand before she can jump in. “You know what I mean, Narcissa. It’s a man’s job to contribute to the household.”

“Lucius, you worked for years—”

“Which allowed you to have a certain lifestyle I’d like to continue.”

“Honestly, darling, we have plenty of money—”

“And I would like to have the same amount to leave to Draco someday.” And then he gives her the ‘this-conversation-is-over’ look, and she drops it with a slight shake of her head and raised eyebrows. Draco and Neville exchange looks but stay quiet. Draco imagines his mother would be perfectly fine with his father staying home, simply because he adores it when Neville’s home. The thought of working isn’t really something that appeals to Draco—it never was. But then, he grew up spoiled.

He doesn’t mind keeping house, really. Although it would certainly be easier with a wand. Mostly, he just likes the luxury of lounging and the feeling of waiting for his man to arrive. He doesn’t think of it as a gender role, but he still doesn’t know how his parents will take it, so he doesn’t mention this. Perhaps some day he’ll talk these strange feelings out with his mother, when he has something, anything, more masculine to couple it with.

“I’m sorry,” Neville says after a minute. “I should’ve bought a dessert.”

“No,” Draco chirps immediately. “You should’ve told me and I would’ve made one.” He looks at his parents apologetically.

“That’s quite alright,” His mother says, “Lucius has had plenty of sweets today anyway.”

“Narcissa,” Draco’s father says indignantly, now as embarrassed-looking as Draco.

“What? You did.”

He rolls his eyes at her and looks pointedly down at his plate.

They all finish eating roughly around the same time, except Draco. He finds it harder to eat with everything going through him, all the emotions in his stomach. He pokes around at it, not wanting the dinner to end and not knowing what to do about it. Or what to do after it. He doesn’t really want them to leave. But he knows they’ll come back. And he can owl them later. Still. He just generally wants to _be_ with them.

He thinks Neville must understand, because after the dinner, Neville places his hand atop Draco’s.

“This was lovely,” Draco’s mother says as she climbs out of her seat, when it’s all over and there’s simply no more excuses to say. “We must do it again sometime.”

“Or you must come to the manor,” Draco’s father says smoothly, walking her around the table.

Neville says, “I’ll see what I can do,” with a warm smile that makes Draco’s heart flip. Draco’s mother kisses him goodbye on either cheek, and Draco’s father gives him another firm handshake and a nod. Neville hangs behind as Draco walks his parents back to the door. He’s wrapped again in hard, long hugs, one by one.

As Draco’s mother holds him tight, she whispers in his ear, “He’s a good man, Draco, and you won’t be in this mess forever. Don’t lose him.”

Draco mumbles, “I know, Mother.” She pulls back to peck his forehead.

When the door closes behind them, Draco lifts up on his toes, and he watches them retreat through the peephole, holding hands and Apparating away.


	17. Chapter 17

Draco’s groggily shaken to consciousness by warm hands clutched tightly around his shoulders.

“Draco,” Neville’s calming voice whispers, just enough to slowly rip Draco from his dream. He automatically brings a hand up to rub at his eyes, trying to get the sleep out. Then he stretches out with a yawn, he tries to roll onto his back, and his arm hits the back of the couch. He fell asleep waiting for Neville.

“Sorry to wake you,” Neville mumbles.

“S’okay,” Draco mumbles back, trying to sit up. He slumps forward and rubs at his eyes again. “’Shouldn’t sleep on the couch anyway.”

“...I... guess I could’ve just carried you up,” Neville muses. “...Damn, why didn’t I think of that first? Sorry; my head’s a mess today.”

Draco looks up and blinks through the still-mostly darkness—the hallway light is on and the stars are out, but the living room’s light is still off. Neville got held up at the office again. Draco shifts over for Neville to sit down next to him, and Neville adds quietly, “You didn’t have to wait up for me.” Then he leans heavily against the couch’s back, sighing like he’s carrying an extra hundred pounds. Draco’s still dislodging sleep. Neville reaches back to rub at one of his shoulders, face scrunching up in pain.

“Bad day?” Draco climbs off the couch and pushes at Neville’s shoulders. A thought comes to him that he wants to try. “Lie down.”

“Why?”

“Just do it,” Draco insists, and when Neville tries to lie back, Draco shoves him around, so that he’s spread out on his stomach. Neville stretches his limbs with another wince. He’s already removed his robes back at the door, and his tie swings over the side of the couch. He pillows his head on one arm, the other dangling over the edge, palm to the carpet.

“M’too tired to go upstairs, anyway,” Neville mutters, turning his face to look up at Draco. He’s frowning.

Draco moves to straddle his waist, which causes Neville to raise his eyebrows. Draco ignores them and moves his hands to Neville’s shoulder blades, repeating, “You had a bad day?”

“The worst,” Neville grumbles, before asking tentatively, “Are you going to give me a massage?”

“Obviously, because I’m that amazing,” Draco grins. A very wide smile is his reward.

Neville sighs, “You are amazing. Seriously. I don’t know how I ever got along without you.”

“Me neither,” Draco preens. He starts to work his fingers across Neville’s back, kneading gently and rolling little circles. He wishes Neville weren’t wearing a shirt—skin on skin is so much better. But he’ll take this. Draco’s never really given a massage before, but it’s not difficult to figure out, and he’s always prided himself on being good with his hands. In any case, Neville seems to enjoy it, despite any inexperience. Neville’s muscles feel hard and tense but warm quickly under his busy fingertips. “Now, tell me all the gossip.” (That’s usually more interesting than anything Draco can find in books or the muggle television.)

Neville makes a snorting noise. But his eyes are closed, cheek turned against his forearm, and he’s mostly still smiling. “It’s Hermione again. She’s still driving me crazy.”

“Naturally,” Draco frowns, because he never liked her and doesn’t see why Neville would. But he holds his tongue, because he knows if he goes off on all the reasons he hates her, Neville will jump to defense mode, and Draco would much rather hear all the dirt. “What’s she doing?”

“Harassing me about the program. I know, we went over this, but she’s really gotten personal about it.” Here, Neville’s eyes slit open. He glances back at Draco with an evident frown. “...She... she’s really insisting that you have Stockholm syndrome, and that I’m taking advantage of you.”

Draco’s hands stop immediately. Neville looks disappointed, but Draco’s frozen. The thought of Neville going back to how he was—all righteous and too shy or conscientious to touch Draco—makes Draco sick. He fought too hard for this. He’s come too far. Neville’s eyeing him carefully, and Draco’s throat is too dry at first to say anything. Then he manages, “I don’t.” 

“How do we know, though?” Neville asks softly.

“I don’t!” Draco insists. Then he has a sharp intake of breath, realizing he’s just shouted. His pulse is suddenly speeding. He tries to calm down but can’t, and he ends up rambling, “I don’t! You’re not the one holding me captive, anyway—the Ministry is! You’re more like... like my protector...”

“It’s my collar around your neck,” Neville says a little sadly.

Draco’s eyebrows knit together. He wants to ask why Neville’s doing this. Why Neville’s ruining everything. But he knows why. It’s because he cares about Draco, and in his stupid, twisted, Gryffindor head, this is what’s best. But he’s wrong. Draco shakes his head almost frantically. “No. And I’m not some helpless slave; I’m a _prisoner sentenced_ to this. Anyway—it hasn’t been long enough for that—and... and I wanted you from the beginning.”

Neville scrunches up his face, mumbling, “How could you...?”

“You’re hot, Neville!” Draco blushes as soon as he says it. But he’s too backed into a corner to stop, so he carries on, “Look, I may have had ulterior motives at first, but you’re definitely attractive, and since then we’ve gotten along, and we just... we just work together, okay? You don’t even treat me like a slave or a captive.”

“But you are one—”

“I don’t have Stockholm Syndrome! Why do you always have to tell me how I’m feeling? I know how I’m feeling, and I’m telling you!” He’s shouting again by the end, and he realizes too late that he’s dug his nails into Neville’s back, making Neville wince. Draco pulls back roughly and wants to bolt off the couch.

He also wants to punch Neville for being so infuriating.

But mostly he wants to love Neville and have Granger keep her filthy moodblood nose out of it.

After a minute of tense staring and Draco trembling slightly, Neville sighs. Then he mumbles, “I’m... I’m sorry. She’s just... really been getting to me.” He looks at Draco pleadingly, like he desperately doesn’t want Draco to be mad.

Draco tries to calm down but still finds his voice very stiff when he mutters, “It’s fine, just... don’t worry about that. It’s not true.” And she’s just an awful troublemaker that should die. Okay. Calming breaths.

Neville mumbles, “I’m sorry,” again, and looks blankly off into the distance.

Draco takes another minute for himself, and then he returns to slowly massaging Neville’s back, warm and tender. Neville sighs happily, and that makes it worth it. Draco tries to just focus on that. Just Neville being happy, because of Draco. He _is_ good for Neville, he thinks, just like how Neville’s good for him. They’re co-dependant like any relationship. Or as healthy a relationship as a war could’ve bred. He would never have thought it before, but now that they’re together, everything just... fits. They balance each other out so well, and Neville can handle and let Draco just be _Draco._ Even if he was free, Draco can’t really think of anyone he’d rather be with. Nothing should ruin that. It’s natural, and it isn’t some mental condition, and... and even if it is, which it _isn’t_ , Draco doesn’t care and doesn’t want to think about it.

After a moment, Draco drawls thickly, “Take off your shirt,” and Neville leans up a bit to do so. Draco helps him tug it off, and they toss it over the coffee table. Then Neville settles back down, and Draco gets back to work, fingers rubbing and nails gently scraping. He works on every knot he finds and kneads all the tension away, both his and Neville’s through it, and Neville groans appreciatively. Draco doesn’t at all mind if this is technically him _servicing_ his ‘master’—it’s just another skill he gets to show off, and besides, Neville has a particularly sexy back. Broad shoulders and defined muscles. Draco just wants to bend down and lick— 

“Oh, shit,” Neville grumbles suddenly, eyes flickering open. “I forgot the worst part.” Draco sighs in irritation and drops his hands, looking away, but Neville instantly pleads, “Don’t stop.”

So Draco doesn’t stop and busily massages Neville’s sun-kissed skin while muttering, “What now?” He tries to put the warning in that says he _does not want to discuss anymore Granger._

Neville’s voice is low and hollow as he practically whispers, “...There’s an inspector coming tomorrow.”

“What?”

This time when Draco stops, Neville doesn’t ask him to continue. Instead, Neville turns gently over, and Draco has to sit up on his knees to allow it. When he sits back down, he’s on Neville’s crotch, and Neville grunts.

But he still looks upset and mutters, “One of the Azkaban guards is coming over tomorrow, just to make... make sure everything’s in order... so... you’ll, er, have to be in character.”

Draco arches an eyebrow. On the one hand, that sounds utterly humiliating. On the other hand, he sort of would like for Neville to treat him that way, just once, just as a kinky sort of game. ...Even if in front of an audience isn’t the ideal situation. But if it keeps him out of Azkaban, it’s fine. He knows Neville loves him, and he knows they’re alright. And the thought of crawling around on all fours for Neville isn’t at all as displeasing to Draco as he knows it should be. In the end, he just nods and somewhat cheekily purrs, “Okay.” He tries to sound reassuringly alright with everything, as much for Neville as himself.

Neville gives him an odd sort of sad smile and says, “I’m sorry.”

Draco drawls, “It’s alright.” And then he leans down for a kiss, because he can. Neville kisses Draco back sweetly, one hand lazily carding through Draco’s hair.

When they part, Draco purrs, “Now turn back around so I can finish massaging you. You look exhausted.”

Neville grins and gives Draco another peck. He shifts to sit up, making Draco sit back, and he pulls his legs out from under Draco. Instead of lying down, he pushes Draco back, and he answers Draco’s questioning look with, “Lie down.”

Draco obediently lies flat against the couch, legs to either side of Neville. For a moment, he wonders if Neville’s going to return the massage, which would be silly—Draco hasn’t been out chasing villains. He props his head up on the armrest so he can see everything, and Neville starts to fiddle with Draco’s fly. Oh, that. “Are you sure?” Draco muses quietly. He was so tired a minute ago, but he’s always up for sex with Neville. “You’re tired...”

“’M not doing that,” Neville mumbles, and he clumsily shuffles back Draco’s underwear and jeans, reaching inside to fish out Draco’s cock. Draco’s breath hitches and his eyes flicker up—Neville’s looking down, determined. He licks his lips and leans down—then pushes Draco a bit up the couch when he doesn’t have room. Draco’s pressed back into the armrest, grey eyes going wide.

“Neville, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Neville insists, cutting him off. He licks his lips again, looking up at Draco. Draco bites his own lip, unable to believe this is happening. It’s obvious what Neville’s going to do. ...And Draco’s a slave, for fuck’s sakes, he shouldn’t get a blow job from his master... if the Ministry ever finds out...

But Neville hovers over Draco’s cock, holding it firm in his hand, mouth opening slowly. He sticks his tongue out and tentatively swipes it over the tip—Draco instantly throws his head back and moans. Then he rolls his head back to look—he has to look. Seeing Neville’s lips stretch around the head, closing tightly around it, makes Draco instantly hard. And it feels amazing. Warm, and wet, and Neville tongues it lightly, poking at his slit. Neville’s calloused fingers gently squeeze and stroke at his shaft, and Draco’s suddenly, absolutely in heaven. He can’t stop himself from writhing, hips trying to buck up, but Neville’s other hand holds him down. Draco shoots one hand down to grab Neville’s hair, needing desperately to touch Neville in some way. Neville pulls off far too soon, and he mumbles thickly, “I... I don’t really know how to do this...”

“it’s _fine,_ ” Draco practically growls, trying to shove Neville’s head back down. “It’s wonderful.”

Neville smiles and puts his mouth back over it—Draco gasps and moans loudly as soon as he’s engulfed again in that tight heat. He hasn’t been blown in such a long time, and even if Neville isn’t particularly skilled, the fact that it’s _Neville_ makes it perfect. Draco has no idea what he’s done to deserve this, and right now, he can’t care. It’s amazing.

When Neville sucks lightly, Draco’s in heaven—his eyes roll back in his skull and his fingers fist in the couch and in Neville’s hair. Neville slowly starts to slide down his cock, centimeter by centimeter, tongue along the bottom and teeth slightly scraping the top. Draco’s thighs tremble as they’re held down, and Neville has to move his hand when he gets far enough, but his thumb still strokes Draco at the base. Neville stops a few times to adjust and sucks a lot. Every time he does it, Draco whimpers, and he groans as soon as Neville tries to pull off.

Then Neville goes back down. He pulls off again, and begins to bob up and down, making Draco dizzy with want. He whines, “ _Neville,_ ” wantonly, and his eyes can’t focus, but he wants to see everything. He can feel the slight stubble on Neville’s chin rub at his balls, and Neville’s lips look so good wrapped around Draco’s cock. His eyes are half-lidded, and his hair is slightly disheveled. He looks gorgeous, just like he always does. When his fingers slip off the base of Draco’s cock to play with Draco’s balls, Draco arches off the couch, so wrapped in pleasure he can hardly take it. Neville squeezes them and tugs on them lightly, and then Neville runs his fingers back behind them, sliding up through Draco’s crack and tracing his hole. Draco’s a puddle of ecstasy. He pants and moans, “ _Neville...ohhh..._ ” over and over again. When he feels his orgasm clawing at his chest, he tries to stifle it—he doesn’t want to come yet. He doesn’t want this to end—not ever. He wants to savour this moment in his mind. He wants to think of something completely un-sexy to hold the orgasm at bay, but all he can picture is Neville’s gorgeous body sucking his cock.

“N-Neville, I-I’m going to—” But his warning is cut off in a scream. Draco explodes before Neville can pull off, balls tightening and cum shooting straight into Neville’s still open mouth. He makes a sort of choking noise and pulls off, but not before Draco’s finished emptying his load. Neville makes another spluttering sound and sits back up, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

Draco needs a moment to not go unconscious. It’s too much. He feels vaguely like he should apologize, but he’s too satiated to say anything.

When he hears Neville swallow, it’s one of the most erotic things he’s ever heard, and he looks at Neville hungrily.

Neville climbs over his body, lying down atop him. Neville pulls Draco into him. They’re both flushed and warm. Neville looks at Draco firmly and mumbles, “I love you. I don’t care about all that other stuff with the Ministry. I just... I love you.”

Draco breathes, “I love you too.” And he truly means it.

Neville smiles. It’s infectious, and Draco mirrors the shine as he snuggles into Neville, getting comfortable. After sleeping in a cell in Azkaban, Draco’s more than okay with sleeping on the couch, if it means he gets to be in Neville’s arms. He’s too boneless to make it up the stairs, anyway.

He falls back to sleep entangled with Neville, utterly content.


	18. Chapter 18

Draco dresses himself at the closet while Neville watches, perched on the edge of the bed. Draco would prefer Neville dress him, of course, but Neville’s still squeamish about it. There’s still guilt in his eyes when Draco looks back at him, even if it is coupled with lust. Draco makes a show of it despite Neville’s warning glares, swinging his hips too much as he slips into his leather pants and drawing the leathery leash sensually across his skin. He clips it to his collar with a metallic clinking sound. He searches absently through the rest of the contents of the box, wondering what else he should wear.

There are two sets of silver hoops the right size for nipple piercings—real ones, and open ones for masters that don’t like to put holes in their pets. Draco takes out the fake set and turns slightly to the bed. He tilts his head and parts his lips as he rubs his own nipples to hardness, watching Neville through half-lidded eyes. When his nipples are fully pebbled, he clips the cold circles on with a wince each.

Neville breathes heavily, “Is that necessary?”

“The more gear, the less questions,” Draco deduces silkily, sinking back to his knees to re-rummage through the box. There are bindings for his fingers to hold them down and make his hands like paws. He gathers them and ankle and wrists cuffs, and then he puts them all in his mouth. He closes the box and crawls over to Neville, the leash draping below him and dragging across the ground.

At the bed, he drops the bindings into Neville’s laps, hands folded on Neville’s knees like a dog bringing his master a bone. Neville picks up the cuffs and sighs, examining them in resignation. Evidently, Gryffindors don’t wind up as kinky as Slytherins, though Draco’s sure he’s corrupting Neville slowly but surely.

Neville picks up each of Draco’s hands in turn and slides the cuffs on, then taps them with his wand to loosen them. It’s oddly too-comfortable. Then he slips on the finger bindings, tying them down. Draco purrs, “Thank you, master,” despite the warning look it earns him.

Next, Draco turns around, and he stretches to lie down on his stomach. His legs kick up, and he places his feet against Neville’s knees, and Neville slips on the ankle bindings. They’ll be kept loose so he can crawl, but all four cuffs would quickly bind together the instant Neville commanded so. Draco knows he won’t, though—not unless he has to, for the sake of putting on a show and keeping Draco safe. Draco still feels safe, even in all of his gear. In a way, he’s choosing it, if only on survival instincts. After living with the Dark Lord in his house and surviving Azkaban, this is nothing. When he crawls back around, he scoops the leash into his mouth with his forearm, and he holds it up to Neville expectantly.

Neville takes it and mumbles, “I think we should have a special safe word.”

“You can’t stop in front of an inspector,” Draco replies with a frown. His main priority is, as always, not going back to Azkaban. Everything else seems trivial in the face of that, no matter what Neville or this inspector might do to him. “Anyway, it’s fine. Just think of it like a kinky game we’re playing. That’s what I’m going to do.” Draco’s vaguely aware that it’s odd how he’s the one reassuring Neville, considering the situation. But he is, and Neville nods slowly.

He predictably says, “I’m officially sorry for everything here on out.”

“I officially don’t care for your apology,” Draco responds haughtily. He opens his mouth to insist that Neville behave more, but a faint sound in the distance stops him short.

A knock on the door.

Draco freezes where he is, still as a statue. For a moment, he can’t think anything. Then he wonders frantically if he should’ve been there to open it. Or maybe he shouldn’t get on his feet at all. Neville looks at him in obvious trepidation, and Draco’s stomach feels queasy.

Then Neville gets off the bed and heads off, leash loose in his hand. Draco follows, but a few steps in, Neville stops to mutter, “You can walk now—just crawl when we’re at the bottom of the stairs and there’s actually a chance he’ll see you.”

Draco nods and climbs shakily to his feet, feeling awful. So much for taking this easily. The leash is about a meter long, but Draco sticks close to Neville’s back anyway, mostly for comfort. When they reach the bottom of the stairs, Draco gets back to all fours and crawls against the hard surface, not wanting to look up. Neville’s set the house at the perfect temperature for a shirtless Draco, but there’s a blast of cold air when the door opens.

“Williamson,” Neville says smoothly. Draco keeps his head down, not daring to look up. He recognizes the name. One of Dawlish’s friends. The shoes that step in front of him are black, polished, and expensive-looking. There’s a shuffling of fabric that must be robes coming off and hanging up.

“Did I interrupt?” Williamson asks. His voice is older and deep. He sounds a little amused; Draco tries not to react.

“I was walking him,” Neville responds, sounding impressively normal. “Come in.”

And then Neville turns down the hallway, and the leash tugs Draco after him. Neville’s pace is much quicker than normal—Draco has to scurry to keep up. He’s thankful he isn’t entirely naked, but he’s still very aware of his appearance, and now that it isn’t just him and Neville, it’s more embarrassing than he thought it would be. He should be over this. He was ogled enough in Azkaban and even before that, when the Death Eaters were always in and out of his house. Somehow, he isn’t over it. It bothers him more than he expected that he can feel Williamson’s eyes on his swaying ass, and when Neville sits down on the couch, Draco tries to crawl onto the other side of his legs, vainly trying to hide behind them.

Williamson chuckles and takes a seat across from them, to the side of the muggle television. He crosses his legs, and Draco can’t help but eye him warily. He’s in an old-fashioned pinstripe suit with long, grey hair pulled back in a ponytail. He eyes Draco back with a very hungry look, and Draco looks away again.

“I see you’ve got him under control,” Williamson muses. “Hasn’t given you any trouble, has he?”

“He was a little mouthy at the beginning,” Neville admits. His words are uncharacteristically steely, and Draco can’t help but look up at him, although Neville avoids his gaze. “Nothing I couldn’t handle, though. He broke easily enough.” Neville reaches a hand out to pet Draco’s hair—Draco lowers his head submissively.

“I see,” Williamson chuckles. “Yes, when we had his fath—”

“Do you want something to eat?” Neville cuts him off. “A snack? Tea? I’m afraid I don’t have all day to talk—I have plants to attend to. We should get on with... whatever it is you have to do.” Draco sniffs audibly and nuzzles into Neville’s hand appreciatively. He doesn’t want to hear Williamson’s gossip on his family. He doesn’t want to hear any of it. Neville doesn’t sound rude, exactly, but like he could become so if this doesn’t go right. Draco glances sideways without moving his head.

Williamson is still looking only at Draco, expression unabashedly lecherous. After a minute, he nods. “Yes. Tea would be good. I assume he can serve us...?” Why it comes out a question, Draco has no idea; surely the collar wouldn’t let him poison anyone, whether or not the victim was his own master or not. The thought that he’d try is a cold reminder of what the world thinks of him.

“Of course,” Neville answers, and he tugs the leash lightly. Draco shakily, unsure, rises to his feet, and then Neville gives him a little shove in the back towards the kitchen. Blushing out of shame, confusion, and anxiety, Draco stumbles towards the kitchen. The leash trails absently down his front, hitting the rings on his nipples and tickling his skin. Neville and Williamson strike up some arbitrary conversation about finances and then spells, and Draco tunes most of it out. He doesn’t know what all of the Ministry regulations are. But he knows if he keeps his head low and behaves, he can trust Neville to get them out of this.

Draco can’t boil water with a wand anymore, obviously. But they have a special electric kettle Neville’s gotten him for tea while he’s at work, and Draco sits on the floor while it works. He still doesn’t understand half the appliances he’s been given to cope with not having a wand, but he doesn’t need to. Usually, he just waits for Neville to come home and do the work for him. Today, he waits for the kettle to make a faint clicking noise, signaling it’s done, and then he gets back up and pours it into a mug with a random tea bag. It’s a bit awkward to do with his fingers bent down, but he manages. He wasn’t told a specific flavour, which momentarily makes him freeze up. It can’t be his fault if they didn’t tell him, though, he reminds himself. He doesn’t know if he should add anything—milk, or honey, or sugar? Williamson doesn’t seem very sweet. Can he ask, though? A prisoner probably shouldn’t speak unless spoken to.

In the end, Draco carries it nervously out of the kitchen the way it is. He falls to his knees in front of Williamson’s chair, holding the mug out with outstretched arms and his head bowed. When it’s plucked from his palms, he crawls back to Neville, and he picks the end of his leash back up in his mouth so he can redeposit it in Neville’s lap.

Williamson asks with a raised brow, “He doesn’t serve you?”

Draco’s grey eyes widen, but Neville says smoothly, “He knows when I like my tea.” His fingers move to play with Draco’s hair again, the movement now seeming almost possessive, and Neville tilts Draco’s head to lean against his lap. Draco lets himself be moved, hoping the display puts Williamson off. The touch sort of helps calm him down. “Anyway, to answer your other question, I haven’t had any problems with escape attempts. Not in the slightest. He hasn’t even tried to take my wand.”

Williamson raises his other brow. “Not a one?” He takes a casual sip of his tea before glancing down at it, and a knot twists in Draco’s stomach as Williamson skeptically examines the mug. “Most Death Eaters have at least shown signs of plotting dissent at one point or another, and I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how disastrous it would be to have any blood purist murderers on the lose.”

“Well, mine hasn’t. I keep him in line, and he’s very well behaved.”

Draco only breathes when Williamson takes another sip. He smiles slightly as he lowers it. “About that. As I’m sure you know, I need to see some examples of your control. Wouldn’t want to think he’s free to plot the return of his former lord here, now that he’s free of Azakaban’s full restrictions and surveillance.” The smile twists into a more sinister grin, and Draco shrinks back against Neville.

But Neville pushes Draco gently forward. Draco glances at him for guidance, and Neville nods towards the middle of the living room. Draco turns to the coffee table, and with a flick of Neville’s wand, it goes sliding across the room, safely out of the way. Neville reaches down to unhook Draco’s leash, and Draco moves more to the middle, although still definitely closer to the couch than Williamson’s chair.

“What do you want to see?” Neville asks.

Draco can see the older Auror out of the corner of his eye, but he tries not to look over directly. Williamson orders, “Sit.”

Draco doesn’t move. A bead of sweat trickles menacingly down his back between his shoulder blades. He stays on all fours, cheeks flushed with the strain. Fear makes him want to listen, but pride holds him up. And he’s Neville’s, not Williamson. Neville repeats just as hollowly, “Sit.”

Draco lowers his bottom to the floor, legs parting, hands falling between them. He continues staring blankly forward at the wall. There’s a heavy sigh from Williamson’s direction, followed by, “Have him show me some tricks.”

“He’s not a dog,” Neville says emotionlessly.

“They’re orders,” Williamson insists. “It’s a display of control. I don’t have time to sit here and watch him vacuum the muggle way or juggle for our entertainment.” There’s a slight edge of warning to his voice and Draco doesn’t at all like it. But then, he doesn’t like the man at all. Dog tricks have nothing to do with resurrecting a lord Draco wishes he’d never served in the first place.

Neville grumbles, “Play dead.”

Draco falls to his side, closing his eyes for effect. A moment later, Neville says, “Roll over,” and Draco rolls onto his back. “Beg.” Draco paws at the air, head lolling over to look at Neville. Neville is watching him very seriously. There’s a moment of silence, and Neville looks over at Williamson again. “That should be enough.”

Williamson nods and pulls a rolled up piece of parchment from his robes, followed by a thin quill. He scribbles something quickly, probably checking things off. Then he asks, “I must ask what other uses you put him to. The Ministry would hope that their prisoners are put to good use and they’re not getting off too lightly for their crimes. ...Is he an effective pet?”

“He’s a very good pet,” Neville says tightly.

“And does he look after the house, even in his limited capacity?”

“He cleans.”

“What about the cooking? Does he make adequate meals? No poison attempts, I trust?”

“He cooks very well and hasn’t once tried to poison me.” Neville sounds almost as if his teeth are grinding together—Draco looks back to check. He stays on his back, but when Neville nods, he lowers his hands to his chest, no longer ‘begging.’

“Does he take care of anything for you? Pets, gardening, etcetera?”

“He is my pet,” Neville repeats. “And I’m perfectly capable of looking after my own plants.” He raises his eyebrow challengingly. Williamson makes a sort of ‘tsk’ing noise, but moves on.

“What about your other needs?” The way he says ‘needs’ makes it very clear what he’s asking. “Is he obedient and satisfying in that category?”

Under normal circumstances, Draco might be fighting the urge to grin. Of course he’s more than satisfying. As it is, he quietly awaits Neville’s strained, “Yes.”

More scratching of quill on parchment. Then shuffling; the parchment’s put away. “I’d like another demonstration of that.” Draco’s eyes widen again, looking at Neville pleadingly.

Neville is looking right over Draco, straight at Williamson. His edgy tone is now starting to border on a glare. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Of course it’s necessary,” Williamson insists. “This is an official inspection, Longbottom. We need to know Death Eaters are being punished properly and are properly under control. Logically, the most strenuous activities need to be tested—it’d be much easier for him to fake getting tea.”

“He isn’t faking anything,” Neville grits out. “I’m telling you he’s well trained and complete and utterly under my control. And I don’t happen to be an exhibitionist. I don’t see how what I do in the bedroom is any of your business.”

Williamson coughs, halfway between apologetic and frustrated. “Naturally. I don’t mean to drag you into it. But I really must insist on a demonstration. I’d be quite happy to experience his service.”

“So you want to fuck my pet?” Neville growls.

“Well, we certainly don’t need to go that far... a simple oral examination should suffice. If he’s as well trained as you say, he should be able to service someone else easily, under your command. If it makes it easier for you, remember that he was likely happy to do the same for Voldemort.” Draco flinches and has to crush down the litany of hurt and anger that wants to burst out. 

Draco’s been resisting looking over, but he does when he hears more shuffling—Williamson’s uncrossed his legs. He spreads them wide in his chair, semi-prominent bulge on display. Draco shivers. With every bone in his body, he doesn’t want to do that. But he won’t fail this inspection. He’ll do what he has to do. Williamson isn’t eyeing him anymore; both Aurors are staring challengingly at one another over Draco’s still body. When Draco looks back over, Neville’s spread his legs too, and he takes a deep breath before grumbling, “Let me make this very clear, Williamson. _I_ purchased Draco Malfoy for a considerable amount of money, and he is _mine_ and only _mine_. I didn’t spend all those galleons and all of my time training him just to let Ministry officials dirty my possession. If you really have to see it, then he’ll service me, but no toy of mine is going anywhere near your crotch.” Neville lifts the leash suddenly, and the end shoots out to hook onto Draco’s collar, tugging him over a few centimeters, making him yelp. Draco climbs instantly back to his hands and knees and scurries over to his master, right up between Neville’s spread legs.

Draco doesn’t look back, but when Williamson speaks again, he sounds vaguely disappointed. “...Very well then.”

Neville nods. Draco looks up at him, just barely able to breathe again. It makes him uneasy to know that Williamson’s watching, but he can still do this. Neville undoes his fly a little clumsily, looking slightly disgruntled and awkward under his otherwise cool exterior. Draco delicately tries to help him but is careful to stay subservient. He’s slow and quiet. When Neville frees his cock, Draco purposely doesn’t move back in time, so that it falls heavily onto his face. When he opens his eyes after the impact, Neville’s blushing, but Draco thinks that might be mostly out of fury that he has to do this.

Draco tries to say with his eyes that it’s okay. He likes blowing Neville anyway, he really does. He tries to block the steady breathing in the background out, tries to focus. He runs his tongue along the shaft—Neville shudders.

Draco smiles and leans up to slip the large cock into his mouth. It isn’t very hard yet, but Draco strokes the base lightly and plays with Neville’s balls as best he can with his palms, and after sucking on the spongy head several times, it starts to stiffen. Draco puts all the skill into it he can. He needs Neville to be hard; he needs Neville to get off. He needs the inspector to go away so they can do this properly.

“He knows your preferences?” Williamson drawls from the background, now sounding a little lazy. Draco wonders absently if Williamson’s touching himself, but then decides he doesn’t want to know. “He has the right attitude? Been trying to get better at it and please his master?”

“He’s got the perfect attitude,” Neville grunts, just as Draco moves down to get halfway. “Not that that’s any of the Ministry’s business.”

“Of course it is,” Williamson says dismissively. “If you get bored of him, we’ll need to know how much to retrain him for the next person.”

Draco takes a little more, humming softly around the thick cock. He closes his eyes dreamily and tries to concentrate, tries to block out their conversation. He lets the musky scent of Neville fill his nostrils and the salty taste of Neville soak into his tongue. He works his lips around it lovingly, trying to kiss and suck and lick as much as possible. After a minute, Neville mutters a little breathlessly, “Get bored of this mouth? I don’t think so...”

Williamson chuckles. “A pity you got him near the start of the program. We’re training them better now: too many get sent right back. It looks like that won’t be a problem with this one, though...”

“Come on,” Neville scoffs. “Sent back? Could something this pretty be useless? Or dangerous, for that matter... I’m telling you, he’s a model pet...” Draco gets all the way down to the base and moans in spite of himself. Neville’s hands shift to absently stroke his hair, and Draco reminds himself that Williamson probably can’t see anything from his angle, anyway. Which might not actually be so beneficial. If he saw Neville’s cock, surely he’d understand how much Draco wants it—how could anyone not? Draco has to resist the urge to drop his own hands to touch himself. He can’t do that in front of an inspector, obviously. It’s all about Neville. But sucking Neville’s big cock just gets him so horny.... Instead, he rolls Neville’s balls between his bound fingers—hands all over Neville. Neville’s breathing heavily, clearly resisting making too much noise in front of their audience. Draco doesn’t mind. He can tell from Neville’s trembling flesh that he enjoys it...

“Tell him to stick his ass up,” Williamson throws in, suddenly. Then he adds hastily, “Er, he should be able to adapt quickly to sudden situations...”

Neville says testily, “Stick your ass up, Draco.”

Draco whimpers around the cock in his mouth, blushing. But at least Williamson can’t see that. At least with his face buried in Neville’s crotch, the humiliation in his burning cheeks is hidden. He shifts his legs obediently, sticking his rear as high into the air as possible, hard cock straining between them. There’s an appreciative groan, followed by a curious, “It looks like he’s hard. That’s unusual...”

“No, it isn’t,” Neville grunts. “He’s embraced his new role. Hardly even a Death Eater anymore. He loves this.” Draco makes a choked whining sound as if to agree, bobbing up and down on it. Neville holds him gently, and Draco absolutely worships his master’s dick with his mouth and tongue. He looks up through his lowered lashes to rake over Neville’s sexy body and the incredibly hot possessive look in Neville’s eyes. The idea of Neville being jealous over him is an oddly erotic feeling, and it only fuels Draco’s desire to properly suck his cock.

When Neville comes, he isn’t able to stop himself—he fists tightly in Draco’s hair and bites back a languid groan. Draco relaxes his throat and swallows everything that pours into him. It isn’t as much as usual, but it’s still plenty, and it still makes him moan. He sucks up every last drop and doesn’t move until Neville gently tugs him off.

Then he lowers his rear and sits down, head hung, awaiting more instructions. He can still taste Neville, and he licks his lips absently.

Neville cleans himself up with a quick spell and tucks himself back in, breathing heavily. After a minute, he mutters, “Satisfied?”

Draco isn’t. He’s still hard, but he doesn’t say anything about it. He shouldn’t be allowed to finish, obviously, even if his master did. He figures the need will go down anyway the longer he’s no longer pleasuring Neville. ...Or hopefully they can finish this quickly, and they can resume pleasuring each other...

Williamson grunts, “Very well.” There’s a shaky slurp—he’s probably drinking more tea. Draco doesn’t want to look back at him. Draco leans forward against Neville’s legs, wanting to pretend it’s just them.

Neville asks, “Is there anything else? I’m sure we both have plenty to do today, and I think I’ve more than demonstrated that my Death Eater is properly reconditioned and not a threat in the slightest.”

“...Yes, it does appear that way.” Draco smiles faintly. He wasn’t sure what the inspection was going to include, but so far, it hasn’t been so bad, besides the abject humiliation. ...But that was unavoidable, and still better than Azkaban... “I do think there are a few more things... I must insist on touring the premises, for example...”

“Just in case he’s hidden any dark objects around?” Neville jokes humourlessly. Williamson makes a small noise of affirmation. Neville sighs, “Alright then.” Draco’s forced to scoot back as he climbs to his feet, bending to tie Draco’s leash around the foot of the couch. He says firmly, “Stay.”

Draco stays.

He watches Neville’s and Williamson’s legs disappear back into the kitchen, Neville explaining arbitrary things and Williamson opening cabinets. Draco blocks most of it out. He doesn’t dare climb up onto the couch and instead curls up next to it, covering his body as best he can manage. He doesn’t know how long they’ll be but wonders vaguely if he can get away with pretending to sleep through the rest of it, or maybe even actually sleeping through the rest of it. He pillows his head on his arms and tries.

* * *

“Draco?”

Draco sniffs and rolls over, burying his head back in the pillows. Neville’s soft voice chuckles overhead, and warm hands gently rub Draco’s shoulder. Sighing, he gives in and looks back, mumbling sleepily, “What?”

“I ordered pizza. I’d bring you some, but you’ve gotten mad at me before for getting crumbs in the bed.”

Draco scrunches his eyebrows together and rolls properly onto his back, so he can get a good look at Neville. “Bed?” It comes back to him slowly, and he yawns as he sits up. The blankets tumble off his chest—his nipples are slightly sore. Draco rubs at them softly and notices, “Oh.” Weren’t there rings there?

“I figured you had a pretty bad day,” Neville shrugs, before leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek. “’Carried you to bed and took the gear off, and just let you rest for a bit.”

Draco grins widely ands nods with a hint of a laugh. Of course Neville did. Draco rubs the sleep out of his eyes as he mumbles, “How’d the inspection go?”

“We passed with flying colours,” Neville tells him. “Although he was a bit skeptical to see that none of the punishment devices you came with were used. I told him I liked to use my hand.”

“I like you to use your hand too,” Draco grins, leaning in for another kiss. Then he wraps his arms around Neville, holding him tight. He’s still half-naked, and he tugs Neville down with him into the bed. Neville’s still fully dressed, and his sweatervest is slightly prickly against Draco’s reddened nipples. But he doesn’t let go.

“I’m sorry for everything,” Neville mumbles quietly. “I can’t believe that asshole made us do that...”

Draco drawls, “Shut up, it was fine.” Because it mostly was. And it especially was if he can now hold Neville without worrying about being taken away. He closes his eyes and sighs, “I don’t want to think about that. Just... we’re okay now?”

“We’re okay now,” Neville repeats, snuggling closer for another kiss. “You’re safe; don’t worry.”


	19. Chapter 19

Draco’s sprawled lazily on the couch, an arm behind his head and the other holding up a book. It’s a terribly un-fascinating story of a mermaid in love with a porpoise, who was once a wizard before everything went awry. Draco’s mother insisted he read it, but he’s currently reevaluating her taste level. In any case, it’s passing the time until Neville comes home. As soon as footsteps approach outside, Draco tosses the book to the coffee table, jumping to his feet and adjusting his pace. He tries to stroll as casually to the door as possible, as though he hasn’t been eagerly awaiting Neville all day.

The door opens before he can get to it, and Neville ushers a thickset older man inside.

An Auror. Draco freezes mid-step, trembling all over. He isn’t prepared for another inspection. How can there be another one so soon? Didn’t he pass the last one? This isn’t any good. He’s wearing normal clothes and isn’t cuffed or chained in any way besides his collar.

About a meter away from them, Draco scrambles suddenly to his hands and knees, bowing his head and trying not to pass out from fear. He hears Neville scramble towards him, and Draco doesn’t know what to do when Neville tries to pull him back up. Doesn’t Neville understand? They can’t be like this.

But Neville says quietly, “It’s okay,” in a very soothing voice. Draco hides behind him, eyeing the other Auror cagily. Maybe if he ran right now, he could manage to lock himself in the bathroom. No, that won’t work; they have wands.... Neville repeats, “It’s okay,” but Draco can’t believe it.

The older man smiles at him kindly and holds out a rolled piece of parchment. Draco doesn’t dare take it. Neville takes it for him and passes it over. When Draco picks it up, he’s able to see just how much his fingers are shaking. He doesn’t open it—just looks at Neville questioningly.

Neville turns to him properly, one hand to either of Draco’s shoulders. Neville looks him warmly in the eyes and says, “You’re being pardoned.”

Draco blinks rapidly several times before mouthing, “What?”

“You’re being pardoned,” Neville repeats. There’s a small sadness in his eyes, but he’s smiling. He explains gently, holding Draco like a fragile doll made of porcelain, “We didn’t even need a trial. I guess I have more clout than I thought, and with a bit of badgering, I managed to get Harry to help. Together, we were able to convince the Wizengamot you never really belonged in Azkaban in the first place. ...Although you and your family’s good behavior since has certainly helped.”

Draco’s frozen to the spot. He looks into Neville’s eyes very hard, as though if he looks long enough, Neville will admit it’s all a joke. When he doesn’t, Draco glances instead at the other Auror, who remains quiet. Draco looks back at Neville.

After a minute, Neville steps awkwardly aside, and he nods over his shoulder. The other Auror steps forward, and Draco automatically shrinks back. Neville holds his wrist so he can’t go that far. The Auror takes out his wand, and Neville murmurs, “It’s okay; he’s just going to take your collar off. I wasn’t allowed to de-collar you alone.”

Draco’s free hand instantly darts to his collar—he didn’t ever think he’d lose that. He’s gotten so used to it being there. Will he be able to use magic again? No, they wouldn’t give his wand back. But he could use magical things, perhaps... but if he doesn’t have his collar... will he still be Neville’s...?

He looks at Neville pleadingly. Neville looks vaguely apologetic for the obvious pain all over Draco’s features, but otherwise hopeful. The Auror steps forward and taps the collar in several places, then Neville takes his wand out and does the same thing. There’s an odd tingling sensation around Draco’s neck, and then the collar splits open in the back and tumbles off his neck. Draco watches it go with wide eyes—Neville catches it and passes it to the other Auror.

Draco’s still staring at it as the other Auror asks, “You’re alright then, Neville?”

“Completely,” Neville says, without looking away from Draco.

“You’re sure he won’t attack you?”

Neville almost laughs. “I assure you he’s perfectly safe. ...And even if he wasn’t, I’m a fully trained Auror and I’m confident I could recapture him easily.” When the Auror still doesn’t leave, Neville finally looks over. Nodding, the Auror heads for the door. Neville lets him out, repeating, “Thanks.”

Neville lets go of Draco’s hand to close and re-lock the door. Draco uses his free hands to run along his neck, tracing the smooth, clear skin. It feels so empty. His shoulders feel like they’re missing something. When his adam’s apple moves, it doesn’t feel normal—there should be something it brushes. His white shirt is too loose and rests naturally along his collarbone, leaving his throat oddly exposed. He looks up at Neville. His mouth opens, but he doesn’t know what to say.

Neville steps towards him but stops short. Neville looks at a loss for words too and mutters awkwardly, “I’ve... I’ve been trying to free you for a while now, and... I finally got it through...” Then he adds hurriedly, “Er, not that you completely are—you won’t be getting your wand back until the Wizengamot decides you can, and you’ll have to check in with an Auror once a month for a year, but I can do that...”

Draco tries again to speak. He fails again. His knees give out—he stumbles forward, and Neville instantly lunges to catch him. Holding him up, Neville half-carries him into the living room. They sit down on the couch, and when Neville tries to take his hands away, Draco won’t let him. Draco grabs them and holds them in his own, squeezing probably a little too tight. He never thought he’d be free, even though he _know_ in the back of his mind the day would come. He never thought about it. He just...

“Don’t be scared,” Neville says quietly, letting Draco clutch him tight enough to bruise. “It’ll be okay. You don’t have to leave right away or anything. You can stay as long as you want, and I can take you back to Malfoy Manor when you’re ready. I’m sure your parents will be happy to have you back.”

Draco doesn’t want to go back. He’s not a child anymore, even though the war and Azkaban robbed him of all his transitional years—he doesn’t belong in the same home he once did. The thought of leaving claws at his chest like a wild animal, and his breathing comes quicker, pulse quickening. It isn’t moving out he’s afraid of; it’s leaving Neville and the bond they have. Not that the world isn’t scary, because it is. Draco doesn’t have anything. He doesn’t have any possessions anymore. He doesn’t have any money. He has no prospects. His name is no longer good for anything. Muddled and lost, he mutters, “...A job...”

“It’ll be hard,” Neville soothes him. “I’m not going to lie—it won’t be easy for an ex-Death Eater to find work. But... but you’ll manage. ...You can’t be my housewife forever...”

“Why not?” Draco practically screeches. He’s too worked up to be offended and correct Neville to ‘househusband.’ Isn’t that what he was going to be anyway, before everything went wrong? Just a rich trophy figure for someone or other? He never had job plans. He snatches his hands back and clutches at Neville’s shirt, wanting desperately to undo... everything. “I want to stay here!”

“No, you don’t.” Neville’s voice has been so quiet this whole time, like he’s calming a wild animal. Draco wants to argue. But all he does is splutter uselessly. Neville gently rubs his shoulder and mumbles, “Hermione’s been driving me crazy. I know you don’t want to listen, but... but she has some points. And I couldn’t live with myself knowing I’d used you. A lot of wizards and witches developed Stockholm Syndrome under Voldemort’s capture, and I doubt you’d even be the first Death Eater in this program to have it. I know... I know you don’t think you do. And I don’t want to think you do... but...” Neville looks down before gathering himself and looking back up to say firmly, “I love you too much to take that chance.”

A bead of salty water trickles into Draco’s mouth. He isn’t sure when he started crying, but he is. Finally, he manages, in a shaky voice that doesn’t sound like his own, “I don’t want to leave you.”

“I know.” Neville looks just as upset. He gathers Draco into his arms, holding him tightly. “I don’t want to lose you either.”

“Then don’t send me away...”

“It has to be like this.”

Draco wraps his arms tightly around Neville, sobbing uncontrollably. It wracks his frail body and ruins everything. He doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t. Not even if his parents come to get him. He loves them, he does, and Malfoy Manor was his home.

But his place is here now. Neville whispers in his ear, “It’ll be okay,” over and over again.

Draco can’t believe him.


	20. Chapter 20

Everything is how he left it.

The Dark Lord never touched Draco’s room. He was never taken seriously as a Death Eater, other than by the Ministry—he was able to lock himself away in it sometimes, and the green bedding and silver curtains are just as they were when he was a child. His wardrobe is exactly where it always was, lined in all the clothes he used to have.

Draco wears Neville’s clothes anyway, because if he closes his eyes and concentrates hard enough, sometimes he can still smell _Neville._

The gardens are beautiful. Draco’s mother has worked hard to restore them, and he often follows her through them, watching her spell up weeds or fertilize roots. The manor gardens are much grander than Neville’s little greenhouse ever was. They contain every magical plant he could ever think of, every budding flower and every sprouting tree. There are no glass walls to keep butterflies and small birds away, and the fountains and the gazebo are all polished and pristine. Draco tries vainly to relax in them every once in awhile but is inevitable reminded of what he’d rather have, and he never stays long. Once, his mother offers him a strawberry, and he almost comes to tears.

Draco was a temperamental child. His parents let him be as he is with only a few stray pep-talks or comforting words. One Saturday morning, his father tells him over breakfast that he’ll meet someone new, and he abruptly loses his appetite and shuts himself in his room for the rest of the day. 

His father comes to get him later—Draco doesn’t answer the door. His father comes in anyway—Draco recognizes the footsteps. Draco’s lying on his side on the bed, curled up and just generally being miserable.

Draco feels the bed weighed down on the other side, and his father’s voice says gently, “That bar you applied to owled. ...Although I do think you could do a bit better.”

“I’m a Death Eater,” Draco says hollowly. “I can’t do any better.”

Except that he did better. Neville was better. It wasn’t a job, but it was a relationship, or as much of one as Draco deserved. He didn’t used to think he _could_ have a full relationship; he didn’t know how to properly love or trust or enjoy human company—he had followers like Goyle or fuck buddies like Blaise or potential trophy wives for the future like Astoria Greengrass. He almost wishes he was still that way, doing everything on the surface—break-ups wouldn’t hurt as much this way. Although it wasn’t a breakup, he reminds himself; they weren’t _really_ together. Draco rolls onto his back, and his father passes him a piece of parchment. Draco scans it emotionlessly and tosses it aside.

“I’ll Floo there with you.”

“Thank you, but that isn’t necessary.”

“Draco.”

Draco glances up at his father. He knows he’s being sullen. He doesn’t care. His father looks at him with an odd mixture of disapproval and sympathy.

“It’s unbecoming to brood so long.”

Then he climbs off the bed and leaves. As soon as the door clicks shut, Draco rolls back over and resumes being thoroughly miserable.

* * *

The bar is uncomfortable. There are too many strangers. Too many people recognize him, eyes follow him, and even when they don’t, their presence _bothers_ Draco inexplicably. He knows he needs to learn to readjust, but after Azkaban, he doesn’t know how anyone can expect a full recovery. Why should he recover? Those sort of scars are permanent, he’s sure. And he doesn’t care. He never liked people much, anyway. The days don’t get any easier—the loneliness just mounts.

Draco doesn’t want to know how many people he serves are muggle-born. He doesn’t care anymore. He finds it hard to remember the different things on the menu, and he’s always making mistakes. He spills beer on a man on Tuesday and forfeits half his paycheck. He gives it all to his mother and lets her take care of buying groceries. When the tips are divided, Draco doesn’t get a share. There’s another ex-Death Eater there that Draco doesn’t recognize. She has a thick Bosnian accent and is skittish every time she sees a wand. She doesn’t get tips either. The world won’t forget what they are, so they can’t either.

On a busy Friday night, a man in shabby robes smacks Draco’s ass as he serves their table. Draco goes tight-lipped and doesn’t say anything—the bar never defends him. The man follows Draco into the bathroom when he leaves to be alone, but one of the bouncers catches the man’s look and forces him to leave unless he wants to pay extra. Draco says ‘thank you’ and locks himself in a stall for half an hour.

When he comes back out, he feels like he always does—like a wraith that no longer belongs anywhere.

* * *

Draco tries, once or twice, to think of other things. He owls Gregory and receives a very dull and standard letter back. Everything’s average and nobody’s died. Draco doesn’t owl Pansy because he doesn’t think he can stomach it. He doesn’t really want to see anyone and doesn’t send any more. Draco’s mother offers to have his ‘friends’ over, having never really understood that none of them were really _friends_ , but Draco gently turns her down.

She gives him a set of paints to try and take his mind off... everything. He used to doodle sometimes when he was little.

He draws a big black cloud of nothing and chucks it out his window. He doesn’t feel any differently, and he doesn’t have any desire to try again.

Once, he asks his father how he copes.

Draco’s father says, “With time,” and returns to reading.

* * *

Time doesn’t do anything. Sleeping is horrible. Draco lies in bed and stares at the top of his canopy bed at night, with the curtains drawn so the moonlight washes over everything. Every time he rolls over, he realizes just how large his bed is and just how much he doesn’t fill it up by himself. He’s _lonely_. He takes to sleeping with a stuffed dragon his father gave him when he was six. It isn’t the same as sleeping next to a warm body, but it’s marginally better than sleeping alone.

Draco resumes all his nightmares. The Dark Lord, other Death Eaters stalking his home, Azkaban. Inspectors leering at him and patrons in the bar looking through him. There’s on one there to wake him up and hold him when things go wrong. Draco’s father wouldn’t understand; he has Draco’s mother; he’s not dealing with everything _alone_. Draco uses his third paycheck to buy an extra-strength Dreamless Sleep potion from Knockturn Alley. For a while, it helps. Then he runs out and realizes he can’t afford to use it every night. The nights after a dreamless sleep are so much worse that Draco doesn’t buy it again. He gets used to waking up in a cold sweat, and once he wakes up on the floor with a bruised cheek.

Draco takes to sneaking out of his room at night and sleeping on the couch. There’s less extra room, and he can more easily fool himself into thinking he’s waiting. His father catches him once but doesn’t say anything.

* * *

Food’s not as fun when it isn’t shared, though it was one of the few ‘hobbies’ Draco had. Draco helps his mother bake a cake for no particular reason. She lets him use her wand and the magic gives him an odd rush that he misses. As they spell the icing on, she tells him, “You’ve gotten very good at this.”

“Thank you,” Draco says. “...I’ve had practice.”

They serve the cake after dinner. The dining room has the worst memories for Draco—that’s where he saw the Dark Lord the most. Draco’s father no longer sits at the head of the table; that was the Dark Lord’s place. They sit in a small cluster down at the end, pretending everything’s alright when nothing really is.

“This is delicious,” Draco’s father says after his first bite of cake. There’s a layer of strawberry jam in the middle that clings to his fork.

“Draco made it,” his mother answers cheerfully. Draco shakes his head, and she amends, “Well, he helped, anyway.”

Draco’s father puts down his fork and says very bluntly, “This is getting ridiculous. You need to owl him.”

Draco looks up. He’s been pushing his food around his plate aimlessly, like he so often does. He’s getting too thin again. Beside him, Draco’s mother concurs, “I completely agree. ...Don’t misunderstand, we’re very happy to have you home, but not if you’re simply going to sulk all day.”

“Everyday,” Draco’s father adds. “You haven’t had a single good day since returning. Owl him if you miss him that much.”

Draco scrunches his eyebrows together, confused. “...I... I didn’t think you’d like him so much.”

“What I feel about Longbottom is neither here nor there,” Draco’s father says levelly. “What matters is how I feel about _you_ , and you’re clearly incapable of functioning without that idiot.”

“Lucius,” Draco’s mother chides, before glancing at Draco and repeating, “I agree, however. It’s very painful to see you like this.”

Draco looks back at his father, quiet and at a loss. Truth be told, he expected them to begin arranging his marriage to Pansy or Astoria or something of the like, now that he’s free again, but that certainly hasn’t been the case. His father scoops out another chunk of cake onto his fork while drawling, “Besides, you are a Malfoy. And Malfoys are meant to get what they want. ...If you want Longbottom so badly, you should go get him.”

“You can bring him a Mimbulus Mimbletonia from the gardens,” Draco’s mother adds. “They’re quite rare; if he doesn’t have one yet, I’m sure he’ll be pleased to receive it.”

Draco doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to fix any of this, and he doesn’t know how to combat any of Neville’s infuriating Gryffindor morality with anything short of killing Granger. ...But even then, the damage is done. He doesn’t even know if he’s wanted anymore.

There’s a shrill cry in the distance from their handsome eagle owl. Draco thinks of writing a letter, but his fingers shake too much, and he doesn’t know what to say.

* * *

When a large, brown barn owl drops a Ministry-sealed envelope in Draco’s lap, he doesn’t open it right away. He drinks tea with jittery hands and waits until his father leaves the room.

He glances around the empty parlor, and the owl sits and waits for him to read the letter.

An inspector’s coming. There’s some vague, fancy language about special circumstances, asking if Draco would like to make any special requests. After several minutes, Draco writes, _‘Not Dawlish or Williamson,’_ and then adds, _‘or Potter.’_ He’s fully aware that Potter helped free him, and he doesn’t have any gratitude for it.

Halfway to the window, Draco shouts at the owl to come back, and he hastily adds _‘Mr.’_ in front of all the surnames. He doesn’t like this version of being ‘free’ in this post-war world. But he doesn’t want to go back to Azkaban, either.

He doesn’t know if he wants _his_ Auror to show or not. He’s almost sure that’s what the extra paragraph is for—he’s sure strings were pulled to include it. He doesn’t know if an inspection with them on opposite sides will strengthen the difference in their power or not. And then there’s his pride.

An hour later, two Aurors ring his doorbell. They’re both older women, and he doesn’t recognize either of them. One of them sits him down for a series of mildly degrading questions while the other tours his home. His mother and father are asked to stay in the parlor until the inspection’s over. Draco can’t meet his father’s eyes for the rest of the evening.

He asks when he’ll get his wand back.

The woman doesn’t answer.

* * *

Two Weasleys come into the bar on a busy Saturday evening. Draco doesn’t know the second one, but he recognizes Ron and knows that familiar red hair. He doesn’t want to be seen like this. His pride isn’t all back yet, but he’s had enough humiliation for a lifetime. He fakes a cough and asks his boss if he can go home early. She says no and gives him a Pepper-Up potion. All it does is make his stomach uneasy.

He trades with a fellow server for tables on the other side of the bar from the Weasleys, and he keeps his back to them as often as he can. He keeps his head bowed and moves much faster than usual. He puts a bottle of firewhisky on a table of four, and the older blond man in the corner grabs his wrist before he can pull back. Draco looks at him warily but doesn’t say anything for fear of causing a scene.

“When do you get off, pretty?” the man coos. His face is full off too many sharp angles, and his dark eyes glint maliciously as they rake Draco’s lithe form.

Draco sniffs, “Let go of me,” halfway between a scowl and fear. It’s odd moments like this where he misses Vincent and Gregory. Or Neville. He was never meant to function alone. The man grins when Draco weakly tries to pull his arm away—the man’s friends chuckle.

“No need to get snippy. ...Don’t worry, I tip well.” The man holds up a golden Galleon. Draco tries not to sneer.

Is he that cheap? Is that all he’s worth? In a sudden bout of strength, Draco wrenches his hand free. He places the last set of glasses on the table and turns to leave abruptly, forgetting to take the long way. He passes Weasley’s table and turns red. He just keeps walking. It isn’t so bad, he tells himself. It’s a job. 

Draco doesn’t dream of better jobs. He grew up with money, and he never really planned on working. He never thought about it. If he ever absolutely had to, he always assumed he would just do whatever it was his father did. Now that that isn’t an option, he still doesn’t think about it.

He likes potions. Or at least, he used to. He would’ve been good at that.

He doesn’t have any desire to pursue it. His life’s one big wreck, and this bar, he reminds himself, is the least of his worries. It’s too noisy and the air is too thick and the music’s too loud. The walls are dingy and the floors are sticky in certain places. It’s a rat hole, and now it’s where he’s stuck.

Draco vaguely misses having people to follow. His father, when he was strong. And even the Dark Lord, some days. At least there he belonged.

One of the line cooks in the kitchen spills fries on Draco’s uniform shirt while he’s hiding. It’s ugly, anyway, but the grease makes it worse. Draco doesn’t have a wand to clean it up, and no one offers.

He takes a new set of fries to the table with the blond man, and they tip poorly. He overhears part of their conversation—one of them is an Auror.

His stomach’s sick.

* * *

Draco gets Monday off and stubbornly forces himself to sit in the gardens. He spreads out on the floor of the gazebo and finishes the mermaid and porpoise story he started more than a month ago. In the end, the mermaid realizes they’ve become too different and gives up. Draco hates her. The porpoise never turns back into a wizard. The author never explains how the porpoise feels. Draco briefly considers writing the author an angry letter—maybe even a Howler.

His mother brings him tea. They drink it together and watch the peacocks meander across the grass. He doesn’t ask her to recommend another book, but she does anyway. It’s another one about mermaids. He thinks she might just like mermaids. She says, “It’s a beautiful day. It hasn’t been this nice in ages.”

He says, “I suppose.”

She says, “You should come down to the shops with me. I need to pick up some ingredients for dinner.”

He says, “Alright,” because he’s tired of just sitting around being sad.

Draco’s mother Vanishes the tea cups and summons their robes. They exit the gardens, chatting every so often about arbitrary things like Celestina Warbeck’s new album.

The weather is nice all day, and that doesn’t change anything.


	21. Chapter 21

It’s strange to be on the other side of that door. Draco stares at it before he goes to knock, and then he lowers his hand again.

A few more minutes pass, the day milling on about him. The weather’s pleasantly warm and a cat walks past the street, people chatting on the other side. Draco stares at the wood around the handle. Is it unlocked, he wonders? Does it matter? He breathes out and tells himself to shut up.

He curls his fist and knocks lightly—nothing happens.

He waits several minutes. He turns and walks down the steps, turns back around and knocks again, this time louder. The kitchen light is on. The upstairs window is on. The third time, he practically pounds the door down, then he fearfully retracts his hand and puts his arms stiff at his side, as though he didn’t just desperately do that.

Finally, there’re footsteps on the other side. An owl chirps. A lock unclicks, and the door swings open.

Neville’s shirt is half untucked, both sleeves rolled up, dirt smeared his forearms, his hair is a mess, and it looks like he hasn’t shaved in a while. He starts when he sees Draco and mumbles, “Oh. ...Hey.”

Draco opens his mouth to say everything. He wants to demand Neville take him back. Instead, he closes it and tries again, scowling, “You look a mess.” Then he winces. Why does he always resort to that?

Neville shrugs like he knows. He scratches the back of his head and then steps awkwardly back, muttering, “Uh... do you want to... come in...?”

Draco says, “Yes,” too quickly and marches inside. Neville closes the door behind him. Draco knows he should stop in the hallway, but his feet trace the familiar path to the living room. It’s a mess. There’re various dirt stains on the carpet, clothes strewn everywhere, and an empty pizza box is open on the coffee table. Draco turns to the dining table, but there’s a haphazard pile of papers all over it that tumbles onto the chairs. Instead, he moves to sit on the couch—on the end that isn’t draped in a spare set of robes. When Neville sits down across from him, Draco drawls, looking around, “This place is awful...”

“I know,” Neville nods, not at all looking proud of himself. He tries vainly to wipe his arms off on his sleeves—he must’ve come from the garden. “I just... I dunno. It hasn’t seemed that important.”

Draco nods quietly. He understands more than he’d like to, and he’d like to hope it’s for all the reasons he thinks. He likes to think Neville’s a wreck without him, and he says bluntly, “I got a job.”

“Oh,” Neville says, half-brightly and half-frowning. He looks sort of torn and just barely manages, “...Congratulations.”

“I found an apartment,” Draco continues. “In Wiltshire, close to my parents. I haven’t moved in yet, but I have the deposit to give the landlord today.”

Neville nods slowly and says, “I... I’m glad you’re doing okay.” It does sound genuine, even if his eyes look dead. Draco nods back just as stiffly and feels just as wrong. “Um... it’s good you got everything together.”

Draco opens his mouth to tell Neville about the owl he’s planning to buy.

Instead, he lunges forward, knocking Neville back into the discarded set of robes. Their lips smash together and Draco kisses Neville desperately, smelling and tasting and _feeling_ everything he missed so, so much. Neville takes less than a second to get over the shock and return the kiss, fiercely and open. He slides his tongue into Draco’s, and Draco tilts his head to press closer, wanting more and more. He grinds down into Neville, trying to rearrange his legs for maximize contact. Neville’s hands have slid to his shoulders, fisting in his sleeves. Draco splays his open fingers across Neville’s chest, running up and down between them and remembering everything. Neville tastes sort of like cinnamon, and the thought of him eating food that Draco didn’t cook makes Draco inordinately livid. The thought that Neville showered without him this morning bothers him. The thought that Neville’s been alone and single for months makes Draco want to cry. Neville’s overgrown stubble tickles his chin, and Neville’s hands are almost too rough—just as desperate. Draco doesn’t want to ever, ever let go.

But he has to. His heart’s racing too fast for him to breathe right, and he needs the air. He hisses furiously, “I don’t want it. I don’t want any of it. I hate my job—” Neville opens his mouth, but Draco keeps going, talking right over him, “Shut up, I don’t want another one, I don’t want any one—I hate the apartment, I don’t want it, I just wanted you to know I could do it alone if I had to, I just don’t _want_ to. I’ve been fucking miserable. I...”

Draco trails off in a wild tirade, and Neville whispers soothingly, “Shhh, it’s okay.” He brushes a stray blond strand out of Draco’s eyes and says, with the hint of a smile, “I’ve been miserable too.” His fingers stroke through Draco’s hair, cupping his face gently. Neville always did make everything better, somehow.

Draco laughs quietly, almost hysterically, “Your place looks like shit.” Because Draco’s a bitch and always has been and only with Neville does he ever _not mean it._

Not offended in the slightest, Neville grins wide. He looks so handsome, even unkempt as he is, that it makes Draco’s chest constrict. “To be fair, I didn’t have my househusband.” Draco smiles back. Before he can counter this, Neville adds, “I mean, I know it didn’t used to be like this before you, but...” He shrugs. “I don’t know. You ruined me.”

“How do you think I feel? I can’t sleep alone anymore.” Draco closes his mouth abruptly; he didn’t mean to say that. But he meant it, and he doesn’t take it back. He doesn’t sit up. He stays atop Neville, wondering vaguely why the fuck it took him so long to do this.

He doesn’t want to say it, but he has to. Everything drains back into a frown as he says carefully, “So... now that I’m free... and I’ve done my own thing... well, sort of... can we...?”

“Will you go out with me?” Neville interrupts. Then he blushes hotly and hurries to add, “Ugh, that sounds stupid. You know what I meant. Can you just...?”

“Can things be how they were?” Draco jumps in. He probably sounds too eager. “We can do it _right_ , if you need to—go to dinner and shit or whatever. But I don’t care about that, I just...”

“What about your place? When do you have to be there?”

“I don’t want to be there.”

“Did you really have one?”

Draco scowls. “Of course I did. Why, you want me to leave?”

“No!” Neville quickly corrects. He looks adorably lost and hopeless as he struggles to ask, ineloquently and hurriedly, “Do you want to move back in with me?” It’s perfect. “I mean, you could have the spare bedroom again, and we could put all your stuff in it and—”

“Are you listening to me?” Draco interrupts, scowling again. “I can’t sleep alone anymore—I don’t want a separate room.”

Neville goes quiet for a minute. He looks about ready to burst, but equally as likely to cry. Draco understands the feeling. Draco waits for more, and when it doesn’t come, he can’t take it anymore—he needs more. He leans forward to kiss Neville again, and Neville’s fingers fist in the back of his hair and hold him in. He kisses Neville so hard he thinks he might wind them both. His lips part and work against Neville’s, their tongues fight and Draco’s both urgent and lazy. It feels so right again that he doesn’t know what to do with himself. For a while, they just kiss, over and over, heads tilting and noses brushing, cheeks glowing and eyes closed. Just sharing in the moment, back again, like it should be.

Then Neville runs his other hand down Draco’s back, reaching his waist and grinding them together. Draco didn’t even mean to start anything that heavy. But he can’t help it. He needs all of Neville all over again. Time apart was a waste. He doesn’t care if his mind’s fucked up or if Azkaban ruined him or if he has some stupid disorder. The Ministry didn’t offer him any help, and he wouldn’t have wanted it anyway. This is the only place he’s been _happy_ since childhood, and isn’t that what matters? Slytherins never went with what was healthy, anyway.

There isn’t enough room on the couch. Draco only lifts up so he can tug the spare robes away, throw a rogue pillow to the floor, and push Neville back, so that he can lie down properly, and they can stretch out. But Neville grabs him and flips them, rolling Draco down into the cushions, chests together. Neville above him is even more perfect. Neville’s all around him like a blanket, wrapping him in warmth and safety. Neville traces his sides and ruts them together—Draco’s legs part around Neville’s waist. He parts their lips long enough to hiss, “ _I missed you so much._ ”

“I missed you too,” Neville answers immediately, grinding into Draco slowly, bearing down on him and crushing the air out of Draco’s lungs. “Merlin, Draco, I missed you so badly...” He kisses Draco’s cheek, kisses his forehead, kisses his nose and nips at his ear, Draco moans and Neville kisses everywhere, mumbling, “I thought of you every day. I wanted to owl you so many times, wanted to just show up and grab you, throw you over my shoulder and take you back, but... but I...”

“But you’re a stupid Gryffindor,” Draco drawls. There’s malice in his voice, but not directed at Neville. Just at all the time they wasted. “You should’ve done that. I wanted you to get me.” He moans as Neville traces his stomach, wriggling up underneath his shirt. “Wanted you to save me...”

“You’re free, there’s nothing to save you from...” Neville’s shifted to bite Draco’s neck, sucking a moment later and leaving large, messy marks everywhere—Draco writhes under the attention and whimpers, wanting to be marked by Neville so badly. He clutches at Neville’s hair and slips a hand down to help. He runs his fingers over Neville’s firm ass and squeezes and feels, before slipping under the tight denim.

“Save me from being alone,” Draco growls. “And don’t you dare say anything about finding someone else—I don’t want anyone else. I wanted you every moment I didn’t have you.” Neville unbuttons Draco’s trousers slower than he can stand, and he hurries to return the favour, but stops dead when he realize he needs it _all off._ He shoves Neville up with all his strength, and before Neville can react, Draco’s yanking the sweatervest right off his head, tossing it aside. Draco practically tears all the buttons off in the effort to open his shirt—Neville quickly helps and shrugs it off his broad shoulders. Draco lifts up to kiss them and run his tongue along Neville’s collarbone and all down Neville’s chest. He kisses Neville’s nipples and sucks them into his mouth, and Neville shudders and rips Draco shirt off too. Draco doesn’t even care that he hears a seam split—it doesn’t matter. Neville collapses back down onto him, grinding hard enough to bruise both their thighs. Draco doesn’t care that earth clings to Neville’s arms—he doesn’t care how filthy it is, and he wants Neville to fuck him in the garden. He wants Neville to fuck him everywhere. Neville’s smearing dirt all across Draco’ pale skin and destroying his polished hair, but Draco just keeps clawing for more. He rakes his nails down Neville’s back, marveling in all the muscle. When his fingers reach Neville’s hips, he starts shoving off the denim, but he keeps getting distracted by the urge to feel Neville’s ass. Neville’s taut and strong and perfect all over—an Adonis, all for Draco.

“I’m so glad you came to me,” Neville hisses, and he finally gets Draco’s trousers down far enough for Draco’s cock to tumble out, hard and pulsing with need. Neville pumps it once before lifting up to pull Draco’s trousers the rest of the way off, underwear caught inside them. He throws all the fabric aside, and Draco’s left completely bare, exposed and hungry. He wraps his legs back around Neville’s body, rutting his ass into Neville’s crotch shamelessly. Draco only gets Neville’s trousers down to his thighs before Draco gives up and moves on to other things—he needs his hands to feel Neville’s cock. It’s just as beautiful and big as he remembers it. It’s long and thick and slightly curved and perfect, and he wants it inside him so bad he could burst.

Draco doesn’t want to stop to bother with wands. He doesn’t have one yet, and Neville’s will be somewhere in the tangle of clothes they’ve gotten rid of. Or maybe in his pants. Draco doesn’t care. He lifts his own fingers up to his mouth and starts sucking on them wildly, trying to get as much saliva on them as possible. He’ll need it to take Neville. Neville looks at him in mingled confusion and lust, and as soon as Draco’s fingers are adequately soaking, he runs them down his body, past his own cock. He dips them between the curve of his ass and finds his own hole, legs bending back so far that his knees hit his shoulders. Neville pulls back to watch him rapturously, and Draco fingers himself too fast. He can feel his own tight, puckered entrance, and he tries to stretch it apart with his fingertips, before forcing the blunt head of his index finger in. It’s too big, and he grunts, but he doesn’t stop. He pushes harder, further, until it pops inside, and the saliva helps but isn’t quite enough. He pistons it in and out gently, trying to rub the furrowed muscles soothingly apart. Neville grumbles, “You’re so fucking hot.”

Draco adds another finger before he’s ready. It makes his own cock wilt a little—it stings. He tries to stretch himself, tries to scissor his hole, but he can’t get them very far. Without thinking, he begs, “Neville, spit on me,” and then he blushes furiously at what he just said. But he doesn’t take it back. He looks at Neville so full of yearning that Neville visibly trembles. Neville shifts back in the couch, making Draco whimper.

Then Neville leans back down, and he puts both hands on either one of Draco’s inner thighs, holding his legs out of the way. Draco’s practically bent in two, but that hardly matters. Neville lowers his head between Draco’s legs, and Draco shivers wildly when Neville’s tongue suddenly swipes across his fingers and hole. Another lick, and Draco’s mouth tumbles open, gasping and crying out. Neville doesn’t move Draco’s fingers but instead laps at the puckered ring they’re stretching, poking and tasting and wetting. Draco can feel Neville’s cool saliva trickle over him, running down his burning crack. He pulls his fingers out on instinct, and the next minute, Neville’s big tongue is plunging deep inside his hole. Draco arches and whines wildly, trying not to writhe like he needs to. He can feel Neville’s hot mouth around him, soft lips locked around his hole and hard teeth scraping lightly. Neville’s spongy tongue can’t reach as far as his fingers, but it feels so much better that Draco’s hole twitches of its own accord. It feels almost like Neville’s eating him, and Neville sucks at the outside while his tongue ravishes Draco’s inside. It’s so much pleasure he almost comes on the spot—Draco shoots his hand down and clamps his fingers down around the head of his cock—he can’t let this end yet.

When something harder and blunt wriggles inside, Draco loses it. Neville fingers and tongues him at the same time, and then he lifts his other hand and gently squeezes the base of Draco’s cock. Draco holds the head tighter—he’s so close. Neville gets two fingers inside easily—Draco’s ass spasms around them, warm and wet and open. The third finger barely even burns, and Neville strokes his cock and sucks so hard that any pain there would be drowns out—Draco’s brain is a tidal wave of liquid pleasure. It takes him a minute to realizes he’s been moaning, _“Neville,”_ over and over again. 

When Neville’s tongue leaves his ass, Draco could cry. He really could. But then Neville’s hovering tall above him, pumping his fat cock and leering down at Draco, and it’s the single hottest thing Draco’s ever seen. He begs helplessly, “Make love to me, please, want you so bad...” Neville’s tip presses into Draco’s reddened hole—Draco gasps and throws his head back against the cushions. “Ohhh, yesss...”

He wants to hold Neville, but he knows if he lets go of his cock, he’ll explode. So he only uses one hand to reach up, vainly touching everywhere he can reach. Neville leans back over him, kissing Draco’s cheek, holding Draco’s sides—Draco doesn’t care where that mouth has been—he turns into it. He wraps his free arm around Neville’s back and pulls him down, kissing hard. Neville parts them to hiss, “I love you.”

Then he thrusts in all at once, all the way up, and Draco absolutely shrieks, arching off the couch and nails fisting in Neville’s skin. Neville’s cock fills him up completely, fuller than he’d think possible. It hits that perfect spot right away and pleasure erupts all over, setting him on fire in every last cell. He missed this. He missed this _so much._ He hasn’t felt complete since he left, and now everything’s right again.

Neville takes a few seconds to adjust, and Draco croons, “Ohh, right there...” His eyes roll up in his head, toes curling, heels digging into Neville’s back. One of Neville’s hands snakes down to Draco’s cock, flattened between their stomachs, and Draco groans, “No, need to hold it back...”

“I know,” Neville whispers, kissing the side of his face again. “It’s okay, I’ve got it.” Draco lets go and Neville immediately grabs him, squeezing deliciously hard. Draco’s hand darts to feel everything it missed. He runs straight up Neville’s chest, tugging at the hair at the back of his neck and raking over his shoulders. Neville shakily breathes, “Can’t move or I’ll come... wanted you so bad, waited so long...”

Draco understands. But he still whimpers, “Move,” and tries to wriggle his hips. Grunting, Neville nods. He never was very good at denying Draco anything. All Neville ever does is make Draco feel wonderful. He pulls out shallowly and slams back in before he gets so much as halfway out, but it’s still enough to make Draco moan. It’s enough to make him buck into it. Neville does it again, and then again, hips working up a steady pace, thrusting hard into Draco’s pliant body, over and over again. Neville kisses him everywhere and holds his cock tight, thumbing the slit and swirling the precum around. Draco holds on and kisses him back, wrenching Neville’s lips back to his when they stray. He needs to be able to open his eyes and see Neville’s. He kisses Neville again and again, sometimes rough and frantic, sometimes slow and gentle. Romantic and raunchy and everything. He’s so overwhelmed and his head’s spinning. He might be crying, but isn’t sure what from.

“I love you so much,” Neville repeats between kisses. He’s bearing down on Draco and it’s impossibly warm; sweat slicks their chests together. One of his arms wraps under Draco, hoisting him up and forcing them even closer. “I love you more than anything.”

“I love you,” Draco moans. “I love you, I love you, I love you...”

Right before Neville comes, he smashes their mouths together. It cuts off Draco’s air and his heartbeat goes wild, pulse racing. He can feel Neville tense inside him—Neville’s hips stop, grinding Draco down into the couch, cock spurting everywhere. Draco can feel it swelling inside him, filling him up and dripping all over. He doesn’t want to let Neville pull out—doesn’t want that to leave. The second Neville’s fingers loosen around Draco’s cock, he explodes, soaking both their chests and coating Neville’s hand. Stars erupt behind his eyes and he screams, _“Neville,”_ loud and long, right into his boyfriend’s lips. He holds Neville fiercely down, wanting to meld them together. Everything’s on fire and it’s so, so good. The pleasure nearly makes him pass out. His breathing’s a hysterical mess, trapped against Neville’s body, but he doesn’t want to let go. It’s the best orgasm he’s ever had, or thinks he ever will have—it’s more ecstasy than any one person should be able to feel. He doesn’t want it to ever, ever stop.

It doesn’t, really. It ebbs slowly into contentment as he collapses back against the couch, Neville slumping heavily atop him. Neville’s skin is just as warm and just as slick, and Neville doesn’t try to pull out. Draco slowly lowers his hands to Neville’s ass, just in case.

Neville buries his head in Draco’s shoulder. For a moment, they both just struggle to breathe. The house is quiet, until an owl screeches upstairs. Chirdy. Draco even missed her, in a way.

But mostly, he just missed _Neville._ He missed the house, and the garden, and everything in both of them, just because they were all Neville’s, like Draco was, and still is. Even if Neville doesn’t want him to be.

Draco drawls, “I’m still yours,” stubbornly and hopeful.

Neville takes a deep breath before mumbling, “I’m yours, too,” quietly.

Draco grins wide enough to split his face. It’s a little hard to breathe with Neville on top of his chest, but it’s completely worth it. He can feel the hair on Neville’s chin tickling his neck. Neville eventually shifts just enough that Draco can stretch his legs back, and he has to let Neville slip out, even though he doesn’t want to. When Neville’s cock leaves him, he gasps, head rolling slightly in the cushions. He feels empty again and oddly stretched, but his heart’s full enough that it makes everything okay. His fingers move to stroke Neville’s back absently with one hand, fingers carding through Neville’s messy hair with the other.

After a few minutes, Neville asks sluggishly, “What’s your job?”

Draco hesitates to answer. He almost says ‘bartender,’ because he’s eligible for a promotion in a few weeks. ...Provided they don’t figure out he was lying about having his license, of course. It’s a shithole. They might not. Instead, he sighs, “Server.”

“S’not bad,” Neville says immediately, and Draco chuckles at his kindness. Of course, he doesn’t know how terrible the bar is. Neville shifts onto his side slowly, although his lower body stays draped over Draco’s. He leans his head on his elbow, between Draco and the couch’s back. Draco looks up at him, and Neville runs his fingers lightly over Draco’s chest, swirling in no particular pattern. “...Do you hate me for making you get it?”

Draco drawls, “No.” He could also say he understands, but he doesn’t bother. He doesn’t have to say he doesn’t want the job—Neville knows that.

Neville says, “...You... you don’t need a job if you don’t want to. If you’re going to move back in, I can take care of you... if you still cook and clean, that is—I mean, you should do _something_...”

“Like be your househusband?” Draco smiles. He considers asking for a ring, but then he decides it might be too soon after so many ‘I love you’s were thrown out. That’s for later down the line. ...But definitely someday.

“Yeah,” Neville chuckles.

“Will you still have to examine the house when you do my monthly inspections?” Draco chuckles. The last one was hardly a large pain, but it was unpleasant, and he just realized that won’t be a problem anymore. It’s almost like being actually free.

But Neville frowns. “Shit, I forgot about that.”

“It’s okay. They sent two women—they were... reasonable.”

“No,” Neville shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant. I can’t do those for you.”

“Why not?” Draco frowns. “I mean, I suppose you’re a little biased, but you don’t have to go and tell them about us...”

“No, I’m not an Auror anymore. My license expired, and I didn’t reapply.”

Draco’s eyebrows knit together. “What?” It takes him a minute to formulate a response to that; there are so many things. He should probably ask why, but instead, he says, “Well, that was stupid; we can’t both be jobless.” 

Neville chuckles, and Draco’s glad to see him smiling again. He shakes his head. “No. I... I applied at Hogwarts.”

“Hogwarts?”

“Yeah, Herbology. I mean, the garden’s nice here, but... I’m going to need more room, especially with the plants your mother’s been sending me.”

“My mother’s been sending you plants?” Draco’s face scrunches up. Why the heck didn’t she tell him about that?

Neville’s cheeks flush and he mutters, “Yeah, I asked her not to, but... well, anyway. The point is, I’ve always liked Herbology, and now that most of the Death Eaters have been caught, there isn’t so much of a need for me anymore.... At least I won’t be in a position of power over you, too.”

Draco blurts, “What about your handcuffs?”

Neville laughs, “We can buy new ones. ...And now that you’re no longer collared, I’d be quite happy to chain you to my bed.” He leans down for a kiss that Draco happily presses into.

When Neville pulls back, Draco muses, “Will I be allowed to come to Hogwarts with you?”

“Of course,” Neville grins. “The Headmaster’s no Dumbledore, but she’s very nice. Anyway, I’ll only be teaching a few classes a day, and not on weekends or at all in the summer, so we’ll have even more time together.”

“I’ll get you during the summer?” Draco grins, missing the rest.

“Yes. ...Maybe someday you can try teaching Potions. You’re good at that.”

Draco nods. Maybe someday. Right now, he doesn’t need to. Right now, he just needs Neville. He shifts to his side so he can match Neville and line them all up again. Neville’s arms wrap around him first, and Draco holds him tight. Neville kisses the side of his face, stubble tickling his cheek. He mumbles into Neville’s shoulder, “You seriously need to shave. We have to go deal with that in... half an hour or so.”

“Why half an hour?” Neville mutters against Draco’s ear, unable to pull back because Draco won’t let go.

“I need at least that long to recover before another round,” Draco drawls simply.

“We’re having another round?” Neville asks mischievously.

“And another, and another, and another,” Draco replies. When he finally lets go, he doesn’t want to, and he kisses Neville on the bridge of his nose.

Neville catches Draco’s lips before sighing, “I’m never letting you go again.”


End file.
